v*****™****'? 


t*tf<# 


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CALIBAN 


CALIBAN 


By 
W.  L.   GEORGE 

Author  of 

"THE  SECOND  BLOOMING" 

"BLIND  ALLEY"  ETC. 


>  i  > 
■  .  •  .  • 
j  •    •   •  ■ ' 


Publishers 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS 

New  York  and  London 


•   •    •  •  •    • 


Caliban 

Copyright,  1920,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  September,  1920 

G-u 


To 

JOSEPH  CONRAD 

Dear  Master, 

Even  though  you  have  given  me  leave  to  dedicate  this  booh  to  you, 
I  should  hesitate  to  do  so  if  I  did  not  feel  that  in  such  a  case  it  is 
he  who  gives,  not  he  who  receives,  that  enjoys  honor;  seemliness 
suggests  that  I  refrain  from  flattery;  duty  commands  that  I  express 
my  gratitude  for  the  generosity  with  which  you  received  my  last 
novel,  remained  unbemused  by  the  anger  of  the  reactionaries  and  the 
artistic  prejudice  of  the  advanced.  I  will  say  only  that  you  induced 
me  to  doubt  myself  a  little  less,  and  subscribe  myself,  dear  Ma^er, 

Your  sincere  friend, 

W.  L.  GEORGE 


423868 


CONTENTS 


Part   I 
GROPING 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  Winchester  House 3 

II.  A  Family 11 

III.  Definitions 20 

IV.  "The  Wykehamist"        28 

V-       Prelude 37 

VI.     Growing  Up       45 


Part  II 
INCIPIT  VITA   NOVA 

I.  Running  in  Blank 57 

II.  The  Animosity  of  Mr.  Wartle 66 

III.  Zip 75 

IV.  Vi 87 

V.  A  Kiss       100 

VI.  The  High  Road 107 

VII.  Scissors  and  Paste 121 

VIII.  Hampstead 134 

IX.  Lining  Up 146 


°&  CONTENTS 

Part   III 
THE   VORTEX 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  The  ' 'Daily  Gazette" 161 

II.  Upper  Brook  Street 173 

III.  Politics 184 

IV.  Sisters  and  Others 192 

V.  Full  Swing 203 

VI.  Affairs 212 

VII.  Knight 225 

VIII.  Baronet 235 

IX.  Peer 249 

X.  At  Bargo  Court 259 


Part   IV 
WAY  WITHOUT   END 

I.  Janet 273 

II.  Cutting  a  Loss 290 

III.  A  Paragraph 300 

IV.  War       313 

V.  The  Furies 323 

VI.  Lord  Immingham 334 

VII.  Spate 341 

VIII.  Proclamations 353 

IX.  Ghosts 367 

X.  Cruise  of  the  "Gazetteer" 379 

XI.  Power 389 

XII.  Hullo,  Life! 402 

XIII.  Caliban 414 


Part  I 
GROPING 


"/  see  my  way  as  birds  their  trackless  way. 
I  shall  arrive — what  time,  what  circuit  first, 
I  ask  not.  .  .  ." — PwObert  Browning,  Paracelsus. 


•   -  -  -    • 


CALIBAN 

Chapter  I 
Winchester  House 

A  SHAFT  of  light  fell  through  the  class-room 
window  on  the  round,  bald  head  of  old  Chips. 
It  looked  red  as  the  sun  in  fog;  red  as  a  guinea. 
Bulmer  yawned  over  his  Livy  and  stared  at  the 
beam,  at  the  grains  of  dust  dancing  in  it.  He 
thought,  "I  wonder  how  many  bits  of  dirt  there 
are  in  that  beam."  It  was  an  interesting  specula- 
tion, and  his  mind,  that  was  not  at  all  stimulated 
by  Latin  prose,  wandered  toward  the  obscene  bald- 
ness of  old  Chips.  Then  he  reflected  that  Topsy, 
who  did  maths.,  science,  and  commerce,  was  also 
bald  as  any  egg,  while  Clamart,  the  French  master, 
and  old  Barnes,  who  took  prep,  and  messed  about, 
had  splendid  heads  of  hair. 

"Go  on,  Tarland,"  said  Chips.  "Take  the  torch 
from  the  fainting  hand  of  your  comrade.  Ubi,  in 
recensendis  capiivis.     Proceed,  O  Tarland." 

"There,  while  counting  the  prisoners  .  .  ."  stut- 
tered Tarland.     Then  again,  "...  were  recognized 

as  Tusculans  ..." 

3 


*  CALIBAN 


I      l  i   r      r      i 

<b 


"Now,"  thought  Bulmer,  "both  the  bald  ones  are 
dark  and  both  the  hairy  ones  are  fair.  Do  dark 
men  go  bald  first?"  He  grew  so  absorbed  in  this 
problem,  which  ramified  into  the  practical  idea  that 
he  might  interview  a  scientist  about  this,  say,  the 
chemist  in  Canterbury  Road,  that  he  started  when 
old  Chips  suddenly  bellowed: 

" Compelled!  Laturus  does  not  mean  compelled. 
Was  ever  such  a  creature  known  in  the  Zoo  at 
Regent's  Park?  Tarland,  the  vulpine  dam  of  Romu- 
lus and  Remus  suckled  you  not!  But  let  us  draw  a 
decent  veil.     Come,  Selby." 

And  Selby  began  to  drone  forth,  construing  in 
sudden  bursts,  obviously  chancing  it.  Bulmer  re- 
alized that  it  would  be  his  turn  next  and,  expelling 
outer-world  preoccupations,  strove  to  forecast  the 
sentence  where  Selby  would  be  stopped  and  he 
would  have  to  start.  The  auguries  were  favorable, 
for  Selby  was  lucky  that  morning.  He  reached  the 
end  of  his  allotted  exercise  without  mishap,  being 
subject  only  to  the  remark  that  if  Livy  had  used 
the  word  "got"  three  times  in  six  lines  he  would 
have  been  kicked  down  the  steps  of  the  Capitol. 
Now,  Bulmer,"  said  Chips,  amiably. 
Captivis  introductis  in  senatum,  the  prisoners 
having  been  brought  into  the  Senate  ..."  began 
Bulmer,  his  bright-blue  eyes  looking  doubtfully  from 
under  his  brows.  Ah!  that  was  all  right.  And  .  .  . 
O  Lord!  ma/tidassent  que  .  .  .  did  that  mean  that  the 
Tusculans  had  been  sent  to  Camillus  or  that  Camilius 
had  been  sent  to  the  Tusculans?  It  struck  him 
that  either  way  it  ought  to  do,  as  the  whole  bally 

lot  amounted  to  nothing  at  all.     But  it  didn't  do. 

4 


it 

tt 


%  WINCHESTER  HOUSE j* 

"Camillus  sent!  Sent?"  roared  Chips.  " Widely 
does  your  arrow  avoid  the  mark!"  Pleased  by  the 
answering  sniggers  of  the  class,  Chips  went  on, 
more  kindly :  "  But  don't  despair,  Bulmer,  try  again. 
Try  ( intrusted  with'  instead  of  'sent.'  One  day 
you'll  be  able  to  construe  things  like  sine  qua  non 
and  master  equally  incredible  difficulties." 

".  .  .  and  had  intrusted  that  war  to  Camillus  .  . ." 
said  Bulmer,  despairingly.  No  remarks  from  Chips, 
so  obviously  that  would  do.  He  went  on,  ".  .  .  he 
asks  one  helper  for  himself  for  that  duty  ..." 
Still  all  went  well.  Then  he  struck  a  bit  that  lie 
remembered  by  heart  out  of  the  crib,  and  Chips 
crossed  his  hands  upon  his  gowned  stomach  with 
an  air  of  content.  Then  Bulmer's  memory  failed: 
".  .  .  Romania  inirantibus  fines,  when  the  Romans 
entered  their  country,  non  demigratum,  nobody  emi- 
grated," he  muttered,  and  tried  to  hurry  on,  but 
Chips  leaped  up  in  his  arm-chair. 

"Stop!"  he  bellowed.  "Stop!  ere  you  hurry  us 
all  into  that  section  of  Avernus  where  howls  the 
shade  of  Propertius  as  it  waits  for  that  of  Miss 
Braddon." 

"Not  everybody  emigrated,"  said  Bulmer,  hope- 
fully. 

"Nay,  Bulmer,  strive  not.  Horace  foresaw  you 
and  said  your  mountain  might  be  in  labor,  yet  of 
your  efforts  should  an  absurd  mouse  be  born." 
Then  suddenly  the  master  lost  his  temper  and  ad- 
dressed the  class  more  colloquially : 

"Gentlemen,  you  make  me  sick.  I  will  say  to 
you,  as  did  the  officer  who  apologized,  that  you  are 
fit  to  carry  guts  to  a  bear.     You  are  my  fifth  form, 

6 


*»  CALIBAN  *$ 

but  I  am  beginning  to  think  that  you  are  the  fifth 
form  because,  in  this  academy,  four  forms  know  four 
times  more  Latin  than  ever  you  will."  His  choleric 
face  shone  and  he  picked  out  Buhner. 

"Buhner,  in  the  words  of  the  Elizabethan  bar- 
barian whom  you  call  Shakespeare,  I  write  you  down 
an  ass.  You  are  fat  and  shining,  with  well- tended 
hide,  as  a  hog  from  the  herd  of  Epicurus.  Hog 
and  ass.  Buhner,  you  drive  me  to  the  end  of  my 
zoology." 

A  hot  flush  ran  up  Buhner's  cheeks,  his  ears  felt 
fiery,  and  as  sniggers  rose  about  him  he  grew  angry 
and  said: 

"Oh  well,  what's  the  good  of  Latin  and  Greek, 
anyway?" 

"What!"  said  Chips,  incredulously.  "Say  that 
again!" 

As  Bulmer  did  not  reply,  Chips  went  on,  "Did  I 
understand  you  to  ask  what's  the  good  of  the 
classics,  anyway?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  muttered  Bulmer,  shrinking. 

"Oh!  Plutarch  must  have  been  thinking  of  you 
when  he  said  that  the  Macedonians  are  a  rude  and 
vulgar  people  who  call  a  spade  a  spade.  And,  pray, 
what  do  you  imply  by  that  interesting  remark?" 

"Oh  well,"  said  Bulmer,  desperately,  "what's  the 
good  of  Latin?  Nobody  talks  Latin."  As  Chips 
stared  at  him,  horrified,  Bulmer,  who  felt  very  self- 
conscious,  added,  "If  it  was  German  it  might  be 
some  use." 

After  a  long  pause  Chips  replied : 

"This  is  not  a  debating  society,  Bulmer,  but 
since  I  asked  you  what  you  meant  you  are  en- 


«  WINCHESTER  HOUSE  *» 

titled  to  speak.  You  mean  that  the  classics  have 
no  utility?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  my  child,  I  might  bruise  your  adolescent 
head  with  the  periods  of  Cicero,  but  I  will  have 
mercy  upon  you,  I  will  refrain  from  you.  I  will  tell 
you  simply  that  utility  is  base  and  vile,  and  that 
nothing  is  any  good  to  you  if  it  is  useful  to  you. 
And  this  being  a  metaphysical  point,  Bulmer,  I  do 
not  expect  you  to  grasp  it.  Rather  will  I  teach 
you  to  love  wisdom  and  clarity  by  asking  you  to 
write  out  for  me,  and  deliver,  mind  you,  punctually, 
by  the  morning  of  the  day  after  to-morrow,  five 
hundred  times  this  solemn  resolve,  'I  must  not  be 
a  utilitarian.'  And  now  pass  on,  pass  on  the  torch, 
and  you,  Sykehouse,  take  it  up  and  dance  me 
merrily." 

"Anyhow,"  thought  Bulmer,  "that's  over,"  and 
wondered  whether  it  would  be  possible  to  fit  a  pen- 
holder with  five  nibs  instead  of  the  usual  three. 
This  idea  was  entrancing,  for  he  was  not  quite 
fifteen.  If  one  could  only  make  a  penholder  with 
five  hundred  nibs,  why,  the  great  impot  problem 
would  be  solved. 

Winchester  House  was  a  bad  school,  but  as  schools 
went,  in  those  days  when  Queen  Victoria  had  still 
three  years  to  wait  to  celebrate  her  first  jubilee,  it 
was  not  much  worse  than  most  bad  schools.  This 
academy  for  young  gentlemen  occupied  in  Maida 
Vale  a  large,  double-fronted  house,  built  under 
William  IV  and  since  then  seldom  repaired.  Parti- 
tions had  been  knocked  down  to  make  a  big  class- 
room on  each  side  of  the  front  door.  The  paint  was 
2  7 


rn_) 


%  CALIBAN  °S 


brown.  The  walls  were  papered  dark  red,  with  a 
pattern  of  yellow  roses.  The  boys  sat  upon  forms 
that  were  too  high  for  the  little  ones  and  too  low 
for  the  big  ones.  In  a  corner  stood  a  globe;  upon 
the  walls  hung  Mercator  maps;  in  the  big  class- 
room was  also  a  colossal  gold-framed  engraving  of  the 
wedding  of  Queen  Victoria  to  the  Prince  Consort. 
Behind  the  wire-blinded  windows  lay  the  gravel 
front  garden,  where  lingered  evergreens  which  Tar- 
land  called  nevergreens.  Lost  among  these  shrubs 
stood  a  statue  of  a  nude  and  peeling  female  pouring 
nothing  from  a  jug. 

It  was  not  such  a  bad  school.  Mr.  Walton,  other- 
wise Chips,  had  been  to  Oxford,  taken  honors  in 
classics,  had  married  a  local  barmaid.  After  being 
turned  out  of  several  schools,  because  Mrs.  Walton 
visited  the  bars  of  the  town,  either  for  old  sake's  sake 
or  for  refreshment,  he  had  imitated  his  wife.  Now, 
fifty,  too  fat,  very  red,  pompous,  choleric,  he  drank, 
not  enormously,  but  steadily.  He  shaved  every  two 
days,  except  when  he  expected  parents.  He  break- 
fasted in  his  gown  and  spilled  egg  on  it.  Tarland 
called  it  the  robe  of  the  Ethiopian  because,  like  the 
leopard,  it  never  changed  its  spots.  But  Chips  had 
a  true  and  passionate  feeling  for  the  classics.  He 
managed  to  bang  and  bellow  some  of  his  fervor  into 
those  sons  of  tradesmen  and  decayed  gentlefolk 
from  Kilburn  and  Brondesbury.  He  was  a  better 
man  than  old  Topsy,  with  his  long,  melancholic  head, 
his  soup-scented  mustache  and  whiskers,  and  his 
capacity  for  preventing  the  boys  from  ever  finding 
out  the  difference  between  the  binomial  theorem 
and  atomic  weights.     Old  Topsy  taught  commerce, 

8 


°g  WINCHESTER  HOUSE jB 

too,  a  concession  to  the  modern  spirit  of  the  'eighties. 
He  was  qualified  because  he  had  once  joined  his 
brother-in-law  in  a  tea  business  that  failed.  Then 
there  was  Clamart,  the  Frenchman,  with  hair  that 
stuck  up  and  a  mustache  that  stuck  up,  who  taught 
French,  and  German,  and  music,  and  dancing,  and 
set  the  boys  undesirable  translations  out  of  the 
fashionable  Mr.  Zola.  He  was  often  seen  picking 
up  girls  outside  the  Palmerston.  There  was  old 
Barnes,  too,  gray,  spectacled,  and  free  from  all  il- 
lusions, presumably  because  he  had  to  teach  geog- 
raphy. He  also  took  prep. — that  is,  he  sat  down  while 
the  boys  larked— and  page  by  page  he  inspected  his 
stamp  collection.  He  was  also  supposed  to  super- 
vise games  because,  thirty  years  before,  when  he 
belonged  to  the  Brixton  Hebdomadals,  he  had 
knocked  up  seventy-two  off  a  bowler  with  a  cast  in 
his  eye. 

And  yet  Winchester  House  might  have  been  a 
worse  school.  If  old  Chips,  casting  treasure  before 
them,  and  Topsy,  automatically  chalking  up  equa- 
tions, and  Clamart,  liberating  the  boys  from  the 
pompous  Corneille  and  the  wearisome  Madame  de 
Sevigne,  were  not  educating,  they  were  not  mis- 
educating.  The  boys  learned  little,  but  they  es- 
caped being  molded  into  a  common  form.  Thus, 
Tarland,  who  was  mechanical,  found  that  Topsy  let 
him  off  chemistry  and  allowed  him  to  concentrate 
on  light,  heat,  and  elementary  electricity.  And 
Selby,  who  was  good  at  games  and  nearly  sixteen, 
went  about  with  Clamart  and  learned  a  bit  about 
the  world.  Bulmar  was  less  fortunate.  He  looked 
upon   the   whole  curriculum   as  sodden   rot.     He 

9 


°g  CALIBAN  *S? 

hated  Latin  with  excessive  intensity;  Topsy's  chem- 
istry was  no  good  to  him.  What  Bulmer  wanted  to 
know  was  how  they  made  soap,  and  what  was  the 
real  difference  between  iron  and  steel.  He  liked 
Clamart.  When  the  master  asked  him  why  he  was 
so  keen  on  French  he  replied,  "I  want  to  speak 
French  because  one  day  I'll  go  to  France."  Bul- 
mer was  not  lazy;  indeed,  if  facts  had  been  laid 
before  him  he  would  have  memorized  them  end- 
lessly. He  came  across  Hard  Times  at  home  one 
day  and  developed  admiration  for  Mr.  Gradgrind. 
Now  he  was  walking  home  for  dinner  along  Maida 
Vale,  swearing  aloud: 

"Sodden  rot!  Got  to  write  that  out  five  hundred 
times!  The  same  thing  five  hundred  times!  As 
if  anybody  cared  about  a  thing  after  it  had  been 
said  once." 


Chapter  II 
A  Family 

IT  was  after  nine  o'clock  On  the  right  side  of  the 
hearth,  in  a  worn  horsehair  arm-chair,  sat  Mr. 
Buhner,  his  feet  incased  in  flowered  slippers,  upon 
the  fender.  He  was  reading  the  St  James's  Gazette. 
Opposite — but  because  she  was  a  woman — in  a 
rather  smaller  and  less  comfortable  arm-chair,  sat 
Mrs.  Buhner,  rather  stately  in  her  tight  bodice  of 
puce  alpaca,  with  a  long  row  of  black  buttons  from 
neck  to  waist,  and  a  pleated  skirt  of  black  merino, 
of  which  the  bustle  was  thrust  away  a  little  toward 
the  left.  She  looked  content,  rather  rigid,  in  her 
powerful  stays,  that  thrust  up  her  bust  and  nar- 
rowed her  waist.  An  established  lady.  Her  toes 
turned  neither  in  nor  out,  in  her  neat  kid  boots. 
From  time  to  time  she  turned  over  a  page  of  the 
second  volume  of  Ishmael,  then  just  out.  She 
loved  Miss  Braddon.  Miss  Braddon  understood 
romance. 

From  time  to  time  Mrs.  Buhner  swept  a  look  full 
of  capable  control  over  her  family,  then  collected 
about  the  round  table,  and  Uttering  with  the  imple- 
ments of  their  work  the  green  plush  cloth  with  the 
golden  fringe.     Eleanor  was  mending  socks.     She 

was  very  good-looking  in  a  meager  way,  with  her 

11 


c%  CALIBAN j8 

high  nose,  her  faintly  golden  skin,  the  wavy  brown 
hair,  which  tossed  in  rather  matted  heaps  (for  she 
seldom  washed  it)  over  a  very  fine  forehead.  Her 
fine-cut  lips,  the  long,  nervous  hands,  and  the  stir- 
ring blue  of  the  large,  long  eyes,  would  have  made 
her  beautiful  if  Eleanor  had  not  had  the  teeth  of 
her  period :  she  did  not  even  have  them  all. 

In  the  lamp  the  bad  oil  smoked,  and  through  the 
frosted  globe  the  light  played  on  Henrietta's  feat- 
ures, for  the  younger  sister  was  nervous.  As  she 
bent  over  the  underclothes  which  she  was  making 
out  of  lawn,  all  the  time  her  hands  sought  unneces- 
sary scissors  or  absent  thread.  She  jerked  her  head. 
She  looked  about  her,  birdlike,  inquisitive.  She, 
too,  had  the  golden  skin  inherited  from  her  mother, 
and  the  bad  teeth  inherited  from  Victorian  puri- 
tanism.  Yet  there  glowed  in  her  eyes — blue,  too — 
something  soft,  half-flirtatious,  that  was  absent  in 
those  of  Eleanor.  When  even  she  looked  at  Richard, 
who  sat  over  the  Boys'  Own  Paper  volume  for  1883, 
she  gave  a  little,  half-friendly  smile.  As  if  even 
Dickie  were  a  man. 

Mr.  Buhner  put  down  the  St.  James's  Gazette  and 
yawned.  This  indicated  to  the  family  that  the  mas- 
ter of  the  house  was  taking  his  ease,  and  that  his 
women  might  talk.    Eleanor  said : 

"I  can't  understand  why  you  waste  your  time 
making  those  things,  Hettie." 

"To  wear  them,"  said  Henrietta,  rather  sprightly. 
(A  young  man  with  whom  she  had  once  waltzed 
three  times  in  a  night  had  told  her  that  she  was 
spirited.) 

"I  don't  suppose  you  want  to  sell  them,"  said 

12 


°$  A  FAMILY jjB 

Eleanor.  "What  I  mean  is,  what  do  you  want  to 
wear  things  like  that  for?  Calico  is  quite  as  good, 
and  much  cheaper." 

"I  dislike  calico,"  said  Henrietta.  "If  I  choose 
to  spend  my  money  on  lawn,  surely  that's  my 
business." 

"Oh,  surely.  But  I  can't  imagine  what  you  want 
to  wear  lawn  for.  Nice  women  don't  bother  so 
much  about  their  underclothes,  if  you  ask  me." 

"I'm  not  asking  you,"  snapped  Hettie,  "'and," 
she  added,  savagely,  "if  you  ask  me,  I  don't  think 
this  discussion  is  at  all  proper  in  the  presence  of 
gentlemen." 

"Now,  gals,"  said  Mrs.  Bulmer,  closing  up  Ish- 
maely  "please  don't  quarrel.  Hettie  is  quite  right. 
This  is  not  an  occasion  for  discussing  these  things. 
They  have  nothing  to  do  with  your  father." 

"I  don't  see  why  she  shouldn't  buy  things  that 
wear,"  growled  Eleanor,  taking  long  stitches  that 
would  avenge  her  when  the  sock  was  worn.  She 
said  no  more,  and  contented  herself  with  sulky  side 
glances  at  Henrietta,  who  was  now  giggling  and 
blushing  because  her  father,  interested  by  the  con- 
versation, was  winking  his  left  eye  at  her  with  solemn 
regularity. 

"You  girls!"  said  Richard,  "always  on  the  ran- 
dan! When  I  get  married  I  sha'n't  allow  those 
goings-ons." 

Henrietta  tossed  her  head,  then  cried  out: 

"You  little  beast!"  for  Richard  had  kicked  her 
shin  under  the  table.  He  got  up,  took  some  exercise- 
books  which  lay  on  the  sideboard  under  the  salad- 
dressing.     After  a  moment,  as  he  opened  the  books, 

13 


*£  CALIBAN  *8 

he  found  there  was  not  room,  got  up,  and  placed  the 
Boys'  Own  Paper  on  the  top  of  other  books  on  the 
shelf.  After  a  moment,  Eleanor,  who  had  watched 
him,  said: 

"Richard." 

"Yes?" 

"Do  you  see  what  you've  done?  YouVe  put 
your  book  on  the  Bible." 

"Oh,  get  out!" 

"You  mustn't  answer  your  sister  like  that,"  said 
Mrs.  Bulmer.  "Eleanor  is  quite  right.  You  should 
put  nothing  on  the  Bible,  not  even  the  lightest 
paper." 

With  a  growl,  Richard  relieved  the  Bible,  and, 
sitting  down,  began  to  write. 

Mrs.  Bulmer,  her  eyes  lost  in  vagueness,  was 
thinking.  Her  evening  frock  was  really  rather 
faded.  What  a  pity  broch6  went  like  that!  She 
hadn't  been  able  to  resist  it.  Such  a  pretty  shade 
of  garnet!  and  it  went  so  well  with  her  crimson 
flounced  skirt.  It  struck  her  that  something  might 
be  done.  Perhaps  turning  might  help.  And  she 
might  freshen  it  up  by  putting  in  a  new  ruche  round 
the  back,  and  change  the  shoulder-straps.  What 
would  go  with  garnet?  she  wondered.  Turquoise- 
blue  velvet?  Or  perhaps  not  .  .  .  black  velvet? 
Velvet,  anyhow;  velvet  looked  rich. 

Mr.  Bulmer  was  reading  from  the  St.  James's 
Gazette: 

"We'll  have  to  make  an  end  of  this  government. 
Gladstone  left  Gordon  to  die,  and  now  his  packed 
majority  has  saved  him  from  a  vote  of  censure. 
Bribed,  the  whole  lot  of  them.     The  country's  going 

14 


<g  A  FAMILY « 

to  the  dogs.    Still,"  he  smiled,  "I  suppose  it  '11  last 
my  time." 

Nobody  said  anything.  Politics  belonged  to  the 
master  of  the  house.  He  knew.  Mr.  Bulmer  was 
good-looking,  fifty-four,  very  bald,  but  his  baldness 
went  well  with  his  heavy  brown  mustache  and 
beard,  that  stood  out  sharp  as  if  molded  against  his 
rosy  skin.  He  was  rather  stout,  but,  crossed  upon 
his  waistcoat,  his  podgy  hands  were  pretty.  As 
nobody  challenged  him  he  hummed  for  a  moment, 
tol-lol-derol,  fol-derol,  and  once  more  took  up  the 
paper. 

Mrs.  Bulmer  said,  "Dick,  it's  time  to  go  to  bed." 

"All  right,  mother." 

"I  didn't  tell  you  to  say  all  right,  Dick.  I  told 
you  to  go  to  bed." 

"I've  got  something  to  do." 

"Oh!  I  thought  that  at  Winchester  House  they 
gave  no  home  work." 

"It  isn't  home  work." 

"What  is  it?" 

"It's  an  impot.  Do  let  me  get  on  with  it, 
mother." 

1 '  Do  you  mean  you've  been  punished?  What  have 
you  done?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  I  just  told  old  Chips  that  Latin 
wasn't  any  use." 

Everybody  looked  at  the  boy,  Mrs.  Bulmer, 
shocked  at  his  revolt;  Mr.  Bulmer,  half  shocked  and 
half  sympathetic;  Eleanor,  distinctly  censorious. 
Henrietta  grew  meditative,  as  if  she  wondered  what 
sort  of  man  was  old  Chips. 

Mrs.  Bulmer  spoke:  he  had  done  very  wrong;  he 

15 


*K  CALIBAN  "$ 

had  been  rude;   he  had  been  rebellious;  he  had  set 
himself  up. 

"Oh,  I  do  wish  you'd  let  me  get  on  with  it!"  said 
Richard.  "I  must  not  be  a  utilitarian/ '  he  groaned, 
as  he  wrote.  "I  must  not  be  a  utilitarian.  .  .  .  Oh, 
lor',  father,  why  mustn't  I  be  a  utilitarian?" 

"Don't  say,  oh,  lor';  it's  vulgar,"  said  Eleanor. 

"You  shut  your  ugly  mug,"  said  Richard. 

"If  you  say  things  like  that,"  said  Mrs.  Buhner, 
"your  father  will  give  you  a  whipping." 

"And  quite  right,  too,"  said  Eleanor. 

"Ellie,  you  give  me  the  sick." 

Everybody  lectured  Richard.  Mrs.  Buhner  inter- 
vened and  promised  to  wake  him  up  at  six  o'clock 
next  morning.  Anyhow,  he  mustn't  miss  his  beauty 
sleep.  The  boy  sulkily  went  to  bed;  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  later  his  sisters  folded  up  their  work  and 
also  went  up-stairs. 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Bulmer  walked  up  and  down, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  whistling.  Mrs.  Bulmer 
said: 

"For  goodness'  sake,  don't  whistle  like  that,  Her- 
bert; you  get  on  my  nerves." 

"Where  are  the  boys  of  the  old  brigade?"  whistled 
Mr.  Bulmer.  "Things  are  looking  up,  Edie;  had 
a  bit  of  luck  to-day.  A  man  I'd  never  seen  came  up 
to  me  in  the  street  and  gave  me  his  card.  No  end 
of  a  big  pot  in  Barclay's  Bank,  and  dealt  in  five  hun- 
dred Jimmies." 

"How  much  did  you  make  out  of  it?"  asked  Mrs. 
Bulmer,  who  did  not  care  what  Jimmies  were,  but 
knew  what  she  wanted  to  know. 

"Twelve-pound-ten.    A  few  more  of  those  and  it 

10 


«       A  FAMILY jB 

won't  be  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Buhner  of  Carlton  Vale  long. 
We'll  be  having  our  own  house  with  a  drive  and  a 
side  entrance  for  tradesmen  in  less  than  no  time.  I 
know  a  little  place  in  Highbury  that  'd  suit  us  down 
to  the  ground.  Or  what  about  those  new  houses  in 
their  own  grounds  which  they've  just  put  up  at 
Frognal,  in  Hampstead,  on  the  very  edge  of  the 
town?  It's  like  being  in  the  country.  Ah!  Edie, 
if  only  I  have  a  little  luck  .  .  .  who  knows?  You'd 
like  to  have  your  own  carriage,  wouldn't  you?  And 
a  box  at  the  opera?  .  .  .  and  what  about  a  week  at 
the  Royal  York  at  Brighton?  " 

Mrs.  Buhner  smiled  at  him.  Poor  Herbert, 
always  optimistic.  She  despised  her  husband  be- 
cause he  was  a  failure,  but  she  loved  him,  probably 
for  the  same  reason.  He  needed  looking  after,  and 
when  he  had  a  cold  she  liked  to  bring  him  arrowroot 
in  bed. 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  so,"  she  said.  "Were  Newton 
Leslie  pleased?" 

"Rather!  New  client,  you  see.  Oh,  there's  life 
in  the  old  dog  yet.  There's  more  in  this  half-com- 
mission business  than  you  think.  Things  are  a  bit 
unsettled,  of  course,  with  all  this  industrial  unrest 
and  these  trade-union  agitations;  still,  it  '11  all  settle 
down.  Mark  my  words;  as  soon  as  we  get  rid  of 
that  fellow  Gladstone  the  trade-unions  '11  fall  down 
dead.    Dead  as  a  door-nail." 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  so,"  said  Mrs.  Buhner  again. 
"A  little  entertaining  would  do  no  harm.  We  owe 
several  people  a  dinner;  and  we've  got  to  get  Eleanor 
and  Hettie  married.  Hettie's  all  right  ...  if  only  I 
could  take  her  to  those  new  dances  at  the  Padding- 

17 


*g  CALIBAN  *g 

ton  Assembly  Rooms.  They  say  very  nice  young 
men  go  there;  young  men  with  property,  solicitors, 
and  even  barristers." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Buhner.  "We'll 
manage  it." 

Mrs.  Buhner  browsed  on:  "Ellie's  more  difficult. 
She  seems  to  hate  society.  Sometimes  I  wonder 
whether  it  wouldn't  be  right  to  let  her  go  out  and 
work,  as  she  wants  to,  though  I  don't  think  it's  nice 
for  a  young  girl  to  go  out  giving  piano  lessons." 

"Quite  agree  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Buhner.  "We'll 
marry  them  off;  it  '11  be  all  right.  And  as  for  Dick, 
well,  it's  too  late  to  send  him  to  a  public  school, 
but  he  can  go  to  the  university.  He'll  win  a  scholar- 
ship or  something,  or  perhaps  your  brother  '11  help." 

Mrs.  Bulmer  smiled.  Uncle  Hesketh  was  not 
generous.  His  Christmas  present  to  Richard  had 
been  a  volume  of  the  Boys'  Own  Paper. 

"Ah,  well,"  she  said,  vaguely,  "we'll  see.  Now 
let's  go  to  bed.  What's  the  good  of  wasting  the 
light?" 

Half  an  hour  later  a  figure,  clad  in  a  dressing- 
gown,  tiptoed  into  the  room,  carefully  closed  the 
door,  lit  the  lamp.  Richard  sat  down  before  the 
exercise-books  and  resumed  the  impot.  He  was 
getting  on;  he  had  finished  two  hundred  and  eighty 
lines  during  prep.,  while  Barnes  meditated  over  his 
stamp-album.  Another  seventy  lines  had  been 
managed  in  the  evening.  He  worked  on,  and  every 
time  he  finished  a  page  of  twenty-six  lines  he  said 
"damn"  and  turned  over.  He  finished  his  five  hun- 
dredth line  as  St.  Jude's,  near  by,  struck  eleven. 
Then  he  looked  savagely  at  the  work. 

18 


«  A  FAMILY  U 

''Five  hundred  times !"  he  said.  "Five  hundred 
times  the  same  thing!  What's  the  good  of  it? 
Mustn't  be  a  utilitarian!" 

Suddenly  losing  his  temper,  he  seized  the  pen  and 
wrote  in  large,  blotchy  print,  below  the  last  line, 
"Why  not?"  After  a  moment  the  fury  passed  and 
he  said: 

"Now  I've  done  it.  Damn!"  Then  he  felt  in- 
clined to  cry.  But  Richard  was  practical,  and 
thought,  damage  ?s  done;  least  said  soonest  mended. 
Tearing  out  the  page,  he  rewrote  the  twenty-six  lines. 
But,  as  he  went  to  bed,  he  was  still  oppressed  by  his 
tormenting  idea — why  not  be  a  utilitarian?  Indeed, 
why  not? 


Chapter  III 
Definitions 

MANHOOD,  that  steals  upon  some  men  slowly, 
as  the  sun  rises,  was  to  be  thrust  upon  Richard 
Bulmer.  But  he  was  to  be  so  little  conscious  of  sur- 
rounding fellow-creatures  that  all  the  world  would 
be  a  toy  to  him.  Trouble  was  to  touch  his  family, 
and  he  would  take  his  share  of  it  without  knowing 
that  he  did  more  than  use  his  own  life.  This  be- 
cause, though  nearly  sixteen,  though  in  the  last  two 
years  he  had  grown  very  fast  and  was  a  lanky  youth 
with  an  intelligent  air,  he  was  distinguished  neither 
by  attainment  nor  by  stupidity. 

The  life  at  school  had  never  mattered  much  to 
him,  for  Winchester  House,  though  it  advertised  its 
playing-fields,  arranged  only  ragged  football-matches, 
matching  sides  of  eight  when  more  could  not  be 
found,  or  balancing  a  big  boy  against  two  little  ones. 
It  was  a  place  of  such  amiable  anarchy  that  it  had 
not  become,  as  would  have  a  public  school,  the  deity 
of  his  boyhood.  It  did  imitate  the  nobler  models; 
chapel — namely,  the  mumbling  of  a  collect  by  old 
Chips,  was  compulsory;  and  there  were  prefects, 
overgrown  boys  who  smoked  cigarettes  and  drank 
pots  of  beer  at  the  Chippenham.  They  over- 
looked breaches  of  discipline  if  a  small  boy  would 

20 


*8  DEFINITIONS  H 

carry  a  letter  to  a  girl,  or  give  some  trifle,  such  as  a 

pork  pie.     Buhner  did  not  mind;    this  mean  life 

seemed  natural  to  him;    he  dreamed  a  world  very 

like  his  school,  and  it  may  be  that  he  was  not  wrong. 

Also  he  was  no  longer  being  bullied,  for  of  course 

there  was  a  good  deal  of  bullying  at  Winchester 

House;  no  brutality,  exactly,  no  kicking  or  roasting, 

or  tossing  in  blankets,  but  a  base  habit  of  minor 

persecution.     Instead    of    twisting    another    boy's 

wrist,  a  Winchester  House  boy  would  put  a  stump 

of  rotten  cabbage  into  his  enemy's   coat  pocket; 

or  slip  string  round  his  ankles  during    prep,  and 

ghoulishly  wait  for  him  to  get  up. 

Buhner  had  been  thus  bullied  because  he  was 

smaller  and  lighter  than  boys  of  his  own  age.     All 

that  had  ended  now,  thanks  to  Joe,  who  hung  about 

outside    the    Palmerston.     Joe,    aged    about   fifty, 

and  once  enormously  powerful,  had  been  one  of  the 

assistants  of  Mace,  and  his  sparring-partner  when 

Mace  was  training  to  fight  O'Baldwin.     Pockets  of 

flesh  hung  below  his  eyes,  and  he  had  a  slobbery  lip, 

but,  with  his  close-cut  hair  and  his  crinkled  ear,  he 

still  looked  a  pugilist.    Buhner  had  noticed  him  once, 

when  passing  the  Palmerston,  then  talked  to  him. 

He  had  asked  him  whether  there  was  a  difference  of 

kind  between  the  women  who  went  into  the  bar  with 

men  and  those  who  sat  alone  in  the  ladies'  bar.    Joe 

liked   young    Bulmer,    and    entertained    him   with 

stories  of  the  old  fights  of  Wormald  and  Tom  King, 

and  especially  of  his  great  master,  Mace.     So  it 

occurred  to  Bulmer  to  end  irritations  at  Winchester 

House  by  making  an  example.     For  several  weeks, 

this  costing  him  a  pint  a  time,  Joe  led  him  to  a 

21 


CALIBAN  *S? 


building-plot  in  the  future  Messina  Avenue,  and  in- 
structed him.  Bulmer  took  no  joy  in  these  contests, 
and,  though  Joe  played  light,  he  often  left  a  mark 
on  the  boy.  Bulmer  soon  learned  to  counter  so  fast 
that  his  old  antagonist  had  no  time  to  parry,  but 
though  his  foot-work  was  naturally  good,  he  had  no 
interest  in  the  game;  he  persevered  because,  as  he 
put  it,  he  was  out  for  business. 

The  opportunity  soon  came.  Among  his  perse- 
cutors was  a  big  boy  called  Gaddesby,  nearly  seven- 
teen, who  had  by  his  stupidity  stuck  in  Buhner's 
class.  He  was  learning  nothing;  he  had  been  shot 
into  Winchester  House  by  parents  in  India,  like 
refuse  on  a  dust-heap.  They  paid;  Gaddesby  stayed 
at  school;  nobody  bothered  about  him.  So,  being 
idle,  Gaddesby  specialized  in  the  persecution  of 
Bulmer.  He  put  treacle  on  his  seat,  and  pinned 
on  his  back  a  board  marked,  "Kick  me,  I  like  it." 
Bulmer  said  nothing.  But,  one  day,  when  he  felt 
ready,  and  when  Gaddesby  had  beaten  his  record 
by  filling  his  inkpot  with  sugar  so  that  the  ink  re- 
fused to  dry,  Bulmer  waited  for  him  after  prep.  As 
soon  as  Barnes  was  out  of  the  way  he  went  up  to 
Gaddesby,  and,  quietly  remarking,  "You're  a  dirty 
swine,"  hit  him  on  the  mouth.  Immediately  a  de- 
lighted ring  formed  round  them.  Nobody  was  going 
home  yet.  Not  they.  And,  indeed,  they  were  to 
have  sport,  for  Gaddesby,  though  a  fool,  was  no 
coward.  With  a  bellow  he  sprang  at  Bulmer,  who 
eluded  him,  and,  as  he  passed,  struck  him  on  the 
ear,  following  this  up  with  a  kidney  punch.  There 
were  roars  of  applause,  and  the  ring  closed  up,  for 
there  were   no   Queensberry   rules   at   Winchester 

22  * 


<$  DEFINITIONS  *8 

House;  everybody  expected  Bulmer  to  jump  on 
the  fallen  boy,  to  pull  his  hair,  and  scratch  his  face. 
But  he  let  Gaddesby  get  up,  and  though  the  other 
could  give  him  a  stone  and  a  half  and  a  couple  of 
inches'  reach,  Bulmer  had  already  established  moral 
superiority.  Once  or  twice  Gaddesby  broke  through 
his  guard  by  weight,  and  drove  him,  reeling,  against 
the  wall;  but,  in  the  main,  he  struck  the  air,  for 
Bulmer  dodged  and  ducked  and  ran  round  him, 
striking  sometimes  with  both  fists.  At  last,  by  luck, 
perhaps,  Bulmer  caught  the  giant  full  under  the 
chin,  and,  as  he  staggered,  struck  him  ...  a  little 
below  the  belt.  Winchester  House  didn't  mind  that, 
and  as  the  fallen  Gaddesby  tried  vainly  to  rise,  Bul- 
mer for  the  first  time  knew  the  sensations  of  a  hero. 

There  was  a  little  trouble  about  it  at  home,  for 
Gaddesby  had  broken  a  tooth  for  him,  and  Mrs. 
Bulmer  not  only  disliked  having  her  son  hurt,  but 
the  stump  had  to  be  drawn,  at  a  cost  of  seven-and- 
six.  Eleanor  thought  him  disgusting,  but  Henrietta 
gazed  rapturously  at  her  brother;  he  was  really  a 
man.  Mr.  Bulmer  told  him  vaguely  that  he  didn't 
like  this  brawling,  and  gave  him  a  shilling.  Bulmer 
was  fond  of  his  father,  who  often  had  played  with 
him  as  another  child.  But  the  boy  had  the  serious- 
ness of  youth,  and  felt  bruised  and  lonely  because 
his  father  avoided  his  questions  and  would  not  give 
him  the  intellectual  comradeship  which  makes  love 
between  father  and  son.  Mr.  Buhner's  optimism 
struck  him  as  beyond  allowance,  for  he  realized  that 
his  father  hadn't  got  on.  He  felt  a  dim  pity  for  the 
old  man,  a  pity  that  hurt  him  because  he  could  not 
express  it,  s  >  he  accepted  his  father's  failure  as  a 

3  23 


*$  CALIBAN  *8 


natural  fact.  His  father  hadn't  got  on;  well,  he 
supposed  he  must  do  better;  also,  that  which  had 
happened  had  happened  and  was  as  wholly  lost  as 
the  previous  day. 

For  a  moment,  when  he  reached  sixteen,  it  seemed 
that  Bulmer  might  be  drawn  into  his  family's  con- 
cerns. It  happened  on  a  Sunday.  Bulmer  grew  con- 
scious of  trouble  after  church.  After  leaving  St. 
Jude's  the  family  took  the  air  in  Queen's  Park  as 
usual,  and  nothing  was  said.  Mr.  Bulmer  was  par- 
ticularly jaunty,  swinging  his  stick,  and  whistling, 
"We  won't  go  home  till  morning."  He  always 
whistled  when  his  wife  had  been  telling  him  what 
she  thought  of  him.  Bulmer  did  not  dwell  on  this. 
He  was  watching  the  couples,  and  making  up  his 
mind  that  it  was  all  rot  saying  that  fair  men  liked 
dark  girls,  and  vice  versa.  He  saw  lots  of  fair  and 
fair,  and  dark  and  dark.  Then  the  proportions 
changed,  and  the  popular  verdict  was  justified. 

"Why  do  fair  men  like  dark  girls?"  thought  Bul- 
mer. The  question  in  his  mind  took  on  the  inten- 
sity of  a  head-line. 

So  he  overlooked  the  disturbance.  He  supposed 
mother's  been  making  father  sit  up.  But,  after  din- 
ner, when  the  dining-room  door  was  shut,  and  Mr. 
Bulmer  lay  in  his  arm-chair,  asleep,  the  Sunday 
Times  on  his  head  to  keep  off  the  flies,  Mrs.  Bulmer 
sat  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  which  was  always 
open  on  Sunday  afternoons.  Bulmer  was  crossing 
it  to  get  on  the  veranda  and  climb  down  into  the 
garden  (where,  among  neglected  beds  of  marigolds, 
he  was  creating  water-works  fed  from  the  kitchen 
tap);    he  found  his  mother,  her  hands  in  her  lap, 

24 


<xi> 


*g  DEFINITIONS  « 

weeping,  and  upon  the  floor  a  volume  from  Mudie's, 
badly  trampled.  He  hesitated;  his  mother  did  not 
encourage  affection,  but  her  attitude  stirred  in  him 
an  emotion  forgotten  since  babyhood.  In  that 
moment  he  ached  for  her  and  did  not  know  how  to 
express  his  helpless  sympathy.  He  went  up  to  her, 
knelt  by  her  side,  put  his  arms  round  her,  very  shy, 
very  red,  feeling  that  he  was  shoving  his  oar  in. 
He  asked  her  several  times  what  was  the  matter,  but 
all  Mrs.  Buhner  would  reply  was: 

"You  wouldn't  understand." 

"Oh  yes,  I  would,  mother.  I'm  not  such  a  fool 
as  I  look." 

"I  don't  think  that,  Dick;  but,  you  see,  you're 
not  grown  up  yet.  You  can't  understand  our 
troubles,  quite." 

"Guvnor  been  at  it  again?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean! "  said  Mrs.  Bulmer, 
severely,  for  this  expression  to  her  suggested  drink. 

"Yes,  you  do.     Making  the  shiners  fly." 

"  I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  use  slang.  Oh,  I  do  wish 
your  father  wouldn't  speculate." 

"There  you  are,  didn't  I  tell  you!  Course  he's 
been  making  'em  fly.  He's  a  regular  old  master- 
piece." 

"  It  is  not  for  you  to  judge  him,"  said  Mrs.  Bulmer. 
"After  all,  he  is  your  father.  He  did  what  he  thought 
wise,  and  if  things  didn't  turn  out  as  he  expected, 
it  isn't  for  his  son  to  set  himself  up  as  a  judge  over 
him." 

"Oh,  mother,  that  won't  wash.  You  know  quite 
well  you're  as  down  on  him  as  I  am.  Why  didn't 
you  keep  an  eye  on  him?" 

25 


^  CALIBAN ]£ 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cried  Mrs.  Bulmer,  sud- 
denly impelled  to  confidence  by  having  to  defend 
herself.  "Is  it  my  fault  that,  instead  of  getting 
orders  from  other  people  to  buy  shares,  your  father 
should  have  what  he  calls  a  nutter?  You'll  be 
saying  it's  my  fault  he  sold  electric-lift  shares.  Is  it 
my  fault  that  he  said  electric  lifts  were  all  nonsense 
and  the  company  was  bound  to  break?  Is  it  my 
fault  if  electric  lifts  are  a  success  and  your  father 
has  to  buy  back  those  shares  now  they've  gone  up, 
and  lose  eight  hundred  pounds?" 

"Eight  hundred  pounds!"  said  Richard.  "My, 
he  has  been  going  it!" 

"It's  nothing  to  do  with  you,"  said  Mrs.  Bulmer, 
recovering  her  conjugal  loyalty.  "Go  into  the  gar- 
den at  once;  and,  good  gracious!  you've  got  your 
feet  on  my  flounce." 

She  pushed  him  away,  rose  from  the  sofa,  caught 
up  her  fur-edged  black- velvet  tippet,  and,  majestic, 
left  the  room. 

Richard  tried  to  resume  the  discussion,  but  Mrs. 
Bulmer  refused  to  talk  any  more.  For  a  few  days 
his  father  went  on  whistling,  and  one  evening,  at 
supper,  talked  loudly  of  taking  them  all  to  the  Al- 
hambra,  now  that  varieties  had  been  resumed  at 
that  theater.  Then  came  the  solicitor's  clerk,  whom 
Richard  had  seen  once  before;  he  caught  mysterious 
references  to  mortgages  and  insurance  policies.  His 
sisters  knew  nothing,  or  would  say  nothing.  Eleanor 
told  him  to  mind  his  own  business.  Henrietta  wept, 
and  said:  "What  do  I  know  about  it?  I'm  only  a 
girl." 

Then  he  forgot  all  about  it,  for  he  was  discovering 

26 


«  DEFINITIONS  H 

London,  and  he  found  in  her  central  portions  a 
growing  delight.  Tarland  helped  him  greatly  in  this, 
and  often,  after  prep.,  they  would  wander  down  the 
Edgware  Road,  stare  at  Bradlaugh's  house;  reach 
Oxford  Street.  They  laid  bets  on  the  next  bus 
being  a  Road  car  or  a  General.  Then  on  to  Oxford 
Circus  and  Regent  Street,  where,  feeling  very  grand, 
they  drank  coffee  at  the  Monico.  They  went 
farther,  too,  down  the  Strand,  to  look  at  the  posters 
of  the  Tivoli,  and  into  Fleet  Street.  The  Fleet 
Street  area  created  trouble  sometimes  between  Bul- 
mer  and  Tarland;  they  liked  to  go  up  Fetter  Lane 
and  stand  outside  the  printing-offices;  Tarland 
would  talk  of  how  a  printing-press  was  made,  of  how 
it  worked;  while  Bulmer,  without  being  able  to 
explain  why,  took  a  half-sensual  delight  in  listening 
to  the  clank.  Or  he  peered  through  gratings,  end- 
lessly, to  see  copy  after  copy  of  a  printed  page 
slowly  descend  on  the  moving  arm  of  the  press. 

"I  wish  I  had  one  of  those  things/ '  said  Bulmer, 
vaguely. 

"I'd  like  to  take  it  to  pieces,"  said  Tarland. 


a 


Chapter  IV 
The  Wykehamist11 


BULMER'S  thoughts  were  diverted  from  the 
financial  mysteries  of  his  family  by  an  organism 
which  created  itself  rather  than  was  created,  and 
almost  at  once  captured  all  that  in  him  sought  to 
express  itself.  It  came  about  when  he  was  sixteen 
and  a  half,  and  when  his  departure  for  the  university 
was  still  in  a  state  of  suspended  hopefulness.  There 
were  many  such  boys  at  Winchester  House.  Almost 
everybody  was  bound  for  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  just 
as  everybody  was  bound  for  heaven,  but  nobody 
went.  Now  and  then  a  boy  of  sixteen  was  abducted 
by  his  parents,  as  a  hen  in  the  night  by  a  fox.  The 
old  boy  would  come  back  six  months  later,  a  junior 
clerk  in  the  city,  talking  proudly  of  the  importance 
of  his  firm  and  in  general  of  life.  But  many  more 
parents  did  not  think  it  genteel  to  withdraw  their 
sons  so  early,  and  so  the  boys  stayed  up  to  seven- 
teen or  so,  while  old  Chips,  who  was  too  slack  to 
work  up  new  lectures,  amused  them  with  dips  into 
the  curriculum. 

Thus,  the  big  boys  had  very  little  to  do.  They 
turned  into  half -men.  Being  free  from  prep.,  they 
practised  introduction  to  life,  by  means  of  the  in- 
evitable pots  of  beer,   trichinopoly  cheroots,  and, 

28 


CT£> 


U  "THE  WYKEHAMIST"  £ 


from  seven  o'clock  onward,  love,  as  expounded  by 
the  girls  at  the  pastry-cooks'  and  drapers'  in  Kilburn 
High  Road. 

They  played  games  with  heavy  condescension,  and 
it  was  a  Saturday  afternoon,  in  the  disgusted  interval 
when  the  one  cricket-ball  had  been  lost,  that  The 
Wykehamist  arose  swift  as  an  industrial  mushroom. 
The  ball  had  been  lost  because  the  boy  in  the  slips 
had  missed  a  catch,  and,  losing  his  temper,  had 
picked  up  the  ball  and  hurled  it  at  the  batsman's 
head.  As  the  pitch  was  laid  out  in  a  little  building- 
plot  near  Arkwright  Road,  it  went  through  the 
palings,  where  some  small  boys  (described  at  Win- 
chester House  as  " those  Brondesbury  cads")  seized 
it  and  kicked  it  down  the  hill,  yelling.  Meanwhile, 
Winchester  House  was  massed  at  the  far  side  of  the 
palings,  bellowing  words  they  had  learned  in  the 
Kilburn  High  Road,  and  vowing  that  they  would 
disperse  the  liver  of  the  Brondesbury  cads  when  they 
caught  them. 

While  two  or  three  chased  the  Brondesbury  cads, 
Sykehouse  said  to  Bulmer,  languidly,  "I  call  it  jolly 
bad  form." 

"Who,  what?"  asked  Bulmer. 

"Stealing  our  ball.  But  what  can  you  expect  of 
a  place  like  this?" 

"  What's  wrong  with  the  place?"  asked  Bulmer. 

"Well,  we  call  them  the  Brondesbury  cads,  but 
what  are  we  after  all?  We're  only  a  day-school. 
We've  got  no  traditions." 

Bulmer  looked  at  him  meditatively.  Sykehouse 
was  a  tall,  lanky,  fair  boy,  a  few  months  older  than 
Bulmer.     He  was  always  deliberate,  and  talked  as 

29 


°%  CALIBAN  1? 

if  he  cared  for  nothing.  This,  added  to  the  fact 
that  his  father  was  a  retired  naval  commander  who 
struggled  to  live  on  a  tiny  pension,  and  bred  guinea- 
pigs,  gave  him  some  authority  in  the  school.  Yet 
the  word  "  tradition"  woke  in  Buhner  instinctive  an- 
tagonism.   He  didn't  like  it,  and  he  didn'  t  know  why. 

"What's  the  good  of  tradition?"  he  asked. 

"Keeps  fellows  together,"  yawned  Sykehouse. 
"Keeps  'em  decent." 

Buhner  became  thoughtful. 

"I  don't  know  that  I'm  as  struck  with  tradition 
as  you  are,  but  if  other  schools  have  got  traditions 
.  .  .  well,  perhaps  you're  right,  why  shouldn't  we?" 

Sykehouse  smiled,  and  replied,  in  a  shocked  tone: 

"My  dear  chap,  you  can't  buy  a  tradition.  We 
haven't  got  a  tradition.  It's  a  pity,  but  it  can't  be 
helped." 

Then  Bulmer  grew  vivid. 

"Why  not?  Let's  make  a  tradition.  Traditions 
have  got  to  be  made  like  everything  else." 

Sykehouse  protested  against  this  revolutionary 
idea.  He  grew  faintly  excited.  The  messengers  not 
having  returned  with  the  lost  ball,  Tarland  joined 
the  group,  and  then  Upton,  who,  as  usual,  con- 
tributed nothing  but  ribaldry.  He  had  a  round  face 
and  eyes  like  currants,  so  he  couldn't  help  it. 

"Look  here,"  said  Bulmer,  taking  charge  of  the 
meeting,  "Sykehouse  says  we're  a  lot  of  cads. 
Now,  don't  sing  out,  all  of  you.  He's  right.  We 
aren't  the  stuff  out  of  which  they  make  Piccadilly 
Johnnies  with  glass  eyes.  He  says  we  want  a  tra- 
dition.    I'm  on.     I  say  we've  got  to  make  one. 

You  chaps  coming  in?" 

SO 


H  "THE  WYKEHAMIST"  °£ 

"Rather,"  said  Tarland. 

Upton  nodded.  Then  Mardy,  who  had  sidled  up 
to  them,  joined,  and  Selby  gave  the  tradition  club 
the  sacrament  of  his  approval  as  captain  of  the 

eleven. 
When  the  meeting  quieted  to  expectation   Bul- 

mer  said: 

"Well,  that's  all  right.  It  is  hereby  moved  and 
seconded  that  the  Winchester  House  tradition  is 
and  shall  be  .  .  .  well,  is  and  shall  be  whatever  it  is. 
Only,  what's  it  going  to  be?" 

"We  might  go  in  for  proper  games,"  said  Selby, 
"if  we  had  some  decent  playing-fields." 

"We  might  get  hold  of  a  better  place,"  remarked 
Tarland.  "Not  a  bad  idea.  If  we  were  to  play  up 
a  bit  we  might  get  some  big  matches  like  Eton  and 
Harrow,  at  Lord's." 

"Yes,  I'm  for  games,"  said  Upton. 

"No,"  said  Bulmer,  "that  wouldn't  do.  It  'd 
take  ten  years,  or  ten  thousand,  to  pull  up  this 
school.  Besides,  I  don't  want  to  wait  six  months. 
Wre  want  our  tradition  now." 

"What  this  school  wants,"  said  Sykehouse,  "is  a 
touch  of  style.  The  school  cap's  all  right,  but  all  the 
other  schools  round  here  have  got  caps.  There's  a 
club  at  Eton  called  Pop  that  goes  in  for  special 
clothes." 

1 '  Good, ' '  said  Upton.  "  I  say  yellow  breeches  with 
broad  arrows." 

"You  shut  up.  I  suppose  we  could  all  raise  a 
topper,  and  tails.  What  about  doing  something  like 
leaving  the  bottom  button  of  one's  waistcoat  un- 
done?    Something  new." 

31 


*g  CALIBAN  *K 

"What  about  putting  your  trousers  on  inside 
out?"  suggested  Upton. 

"Something  distinctive,"  said  Sykehouse,  ignoring 
the  joker. 

"No  good,"  said  Bulmer;  "you  can  wear  a  topper 
if  you  like,  but  I  don't  want  to  sweat  like  a  bullock." 

There  was  a  long  silence  while  everybody  thought, 
when  Bulmer  violently  dug  Tarland  in  the  ribs  and 
cried: 

"I  got  it.  What  about  a  school  magazine?  That's 
the  ticket!  Keeps  you  in  touch  with  the  old  boys. 
Quotations  about  Winchester  House  from  the  Morn- 
ing Post  of  1870;  Winchester  House  roll  of  honor 
in  the  Crimea;  letters  from  an  old  boy  who's  a 
bishop." 

His  enthusiasm  was  such  that  everybody  surren- 
dered, and  the  magazine  was  born.  There  was  a 
long  argument  over  the  name.  Sykehouse  wanted 
to  call  it  The  Kilburnian.  The  School  News  was  re- 
jected because  it  might  apply  to  any  damn  school. 
At  last,  after  three  days,  Bulmer  discovered  that 
Winchester  boys  called  themselves  Wykehamists, 
and,  to  the  horror  of  Sykehouse,  The  Wykehamist 
was  enthusiastically  adopted. 

"Pretending  to  be  at  Winchester!  I  call  it  jolly 
bad  form." 

"Oh,  go  to with  your  old  form,"  said  Bulmer; 

"we  don't  want  any  good  form,  we  want  this  maga- 
zine to  go."  (He  had  forgotten  the  tradition,  and 
never  thought  of  it  again.) 

The  Wykehamist  had  a  short  but  interesting  career. 
It  began  ambitiously,  with  subscriptions  ranging 
between  sixpence  and    five  shillings,  from  various 

32 


*$  "THE  WYKEHAMIST "  £ 

parents,  mainly  parents  of  the  boys  who  had  been 
asked  to  contribute.  Buhner,  who  had  heard  of  the 
typewriter — then  almost  as  curious  as  a  generation 
later  the  airplane — thought  of  having  the  necessary 
fifty  copies  typed  every  month  by  Remington.  But 
the  cost  of  production  was  too  high,  while  printing 
proved  worse.  Finally  The  Wykehamist  was  repro- 
duced on  that  precursor  of  the  collotype,  a  sticky 
sheet  of  gelatin,  from  which  the  necessary  copies 
were  smudgily  drawn  with  ink  that  ran  from  hand- 
writing that  had  convulsions. 

"  Another  twenty  on  to  our  circulation,  and  no- 
body will  be  able  to  read  anything.  Our  success 
will  bust  us." 

The  Wykehamist  certainly  deserved  to  "bust" 
with  success.  An  inspired  mind  guided  it,  even 
though  it  had  to  put  up  with  painful  impediments. 
The  committee  had  thought  it  advisable  to  get  in 
old  Chips.  As  Buhner  put  it :  "  If  we  don't  let  him 
in,  he'll  try  to  stop  it.  If  we  do  let  him  in,  we  can 
say  enough  to  make  him  stop  it  ten  times,  but  he 
won't  do  it."  Unfortunately,  old  Chips,  who  was 
expected  to  contribute  some  rot  about  Horace,  de- 
termined to  be  local,  and  produced  an  article  on 
the  fauna  and  flora  of  Kilburn.  As  this  was  not 
very  varied,  and  as  old  Chips  knew  the  Latin  for 
most  plants,  but  not  the  English,  and  talked  vaguely 
about  the  oaks  and  daisies  in  Queen's  Park,  Bulmer 
put  in  some  bits  of  his  own.  When  old  Chips  pro- 
tested against  being  made  to  say  that  between  the 
begonias  in  Hamilton  Terrace  he  had  noticed  love- 
lies-a-bleeding  and  rosemary,  Bulmer  told  him  that 
if  one  only  put  things  in  that  were  true  in  the  maga- 

33 


*8  CALIBAN  * 

zine  there  would  be  nothing  to  write  about.     Any- 
how, it  would  make  people  wonder. 

The  first  was  not  a  bad  issue.  There  were  foot- 
ball forecasts  by  Selby,  who  in  the  second  issue 
printed  a  statement  showing  in  how  many  cases  he'd 
been  right  and  said  nothing  of  those  in  which  he  had 
been  wrong.  Tarland  contributed  some  personalia, 
including  some  verse,  where  he  made  the  name  of 
the  French  master  rhyme  with  "you  a  clam  are." 
When  Mr.  Clamart,  after  great  difficulty,  found  out 
what  a  clam  was,  the  magazine  would  have  been 
stopped  if  old  Chips  had  not  said  that  clam  fitted 
him  to  a  T.  Upton  supplied  correspondence  asking 
for  information  as  to  shops  where  one  could  buy 
cheaply  stamps,  toffee,  and  cricket-bats.  (He  sup- 
plied the  answers  himself  in  the  second  issue.)  As 
for  Bulmer,  he  was  editor,  cutting,  saving  lines, 
paragraphing,  and  experimenting  with  head-lines. 
He  had  never  been  so  happy  before.  It  was  a  suc- 
cess, and  Mr.  Barnes  said  to  him  after  prep. : 

"Buhner,  I  should  say  the  Times  contains  more 
news,  but  what  you're  doing  is  more  readable." 

And  so  The  Wykehamist  went  on,  impertinent,  in- 
coherent, and  neatly  following  the  talk  of  the  day. 
Thus,  in  the  second  issue,  when  Sarah  Bernhardt 
was  booming,  Mardy  contributed  several  stories  of 
the  great  actress,  which  he  had  stolen  from  the 
parish  magazine.  The  features  were  maintained, 
and  The  Wykehamist  extended  its  answers  to  cor- 
respondents, composed  by  the  staff.  These,  being 
very  stimulating,  were  an  immense  success. 

A.  F. — You  should  have  her  chloroformed.  Much 
less  likely  to  cause  trouble  than  shooting. 

34 


*8  "THE  WYKEHAMIST"  *8? 

Rosy  Toes. — If  he  did  that  he  is  no  gentleman. 

Puzzled. — Oh,  you  go  and  hang  yourself. 

That  was  their  best  number,  for  Clamart  con- 
tributed reminiscences  of  the  Franco-German  War, 
but  Sykehouse  insisted  on  inserting  his  article  on 
Good  Form,  which  had  been  crowded  out  of  the  first 
issue. 

Unfortunately  The  Wykehamist  was  cramped,  for 
it  had  only  eight  pages,  and,  by  degrees,  half  the 
boys,  many  of  their  sisters,  then  some  of  the  sisters' 
young  men,  poured  copy  upon  Buhner.  He  was 
quite  calm.  What  he  didn't  want  he  tore  up  and 
used  as  scrap.  As  he  put  it:  "  We  want  more  poetry. 
They  use  such  lovely  note-paper."  The  third  issue 
caused  a  crisis,  for  Tarland  brought  up  his  personalia, 
and,  after  reading  them  through,  Bulmer  said: 

"This  is  flat  as  ditch-water." 

"What's  the  matter  with  it?"  asked  Tarland. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  You've  run  out  of  ideas. 
You're  stale." 

Tarland  gazed  at  him,  incredulous.  Bulmer 
added:  "We  shall  have  to  drop  you  out.  It  can't 
be  helped." 

Tarland  began  by  threatening;  then  pleaded  that 
he  had  been  one  of  the  founders  of  the  magazine.  .  .  . 

Bulmer  reflected  that  indeed  it  was  very  hard  on 
Tarland,  that  he  liked  him  very  much.  But  what 
could  he  do?  "You  see,  old  chap,"  he  replied,  "I 
can't  help  it.  I've  got  to  get  the  best  stuff  I  can 
for  the  mag.  If  you've  got  no  more  ideas  I  must 
get  in  somebody  else."  Bulmer  felt  sorry  for  a 
while,  but  he  had  to  put  in  Mardy.  He  scored  with 
an  article  from  Topsy  on  scientific  experiments,  for 

35 


*S  CALIBAN  % 

five  shillings  a  year,  though  Topsy  left  the  magazine 
after  Buhner  altered  his  title  to:  " Bangs  and  Stinks 
for  a  Brown  a  Week." 

Then  Barnes  quarreled  with  him  because  he  re- 
fused "  Thoughts  on  the  Serious  Call."  The  Wyke- 
hamist lived  seven  months,  and  having  attained  a 
circulation  of  seventy-three,  disappeared,  partly  be- 
cause the  editor's  family  at  last  met  its  catastrophe, 
partly  because  the  editor,  infuriated  by  seeing  his 
circulation  rise  only  three  in  two  months,  declared 
the  thing  was  not  paying  its  way  and  must  be 
scrapped. 


Chapter  V 
Prelude 

IT  was  just  after  Buhner's  seventeenth  birthday 
that  he  grew  aware  of  some  major  disturbance 
in  the  affairs  of  his  family,  of  something  that  hap- 
pened in  the  evening  after  he  went  to  bed,  some- 
thing confab ulatory  and  controversial  that  carried 
raised  voices  to  his  bedroom.  Eleanor  knew  some- 
thing about  It,  but  shut  him  up,  telling  him  it  was 
no  business  of  little  boys.  As  for  Henrietta,  she  was 
turning  an  old  costume.  She  certainly  knew  nothing. 
Indeed,  she  shared  with  him  some  lacrymose  com- 
plaints. 

"I'm  twenty-six,"  she  said,  "and  they  don't  tell 
me  anything." 

It,  whatever  "It"  was,  went  up  and  down  as 
things  did  at  Carlton  Vale.  One  night  there  was 
an  audible  quarrel  between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Buhner, 
from  which  Richard  gathered  that  "she'd  been  a 
good  wife  to  him,"  and  later  "...  driving  my  chil- 
dren to  the  workhouse!"  Two  dsiys  later  Mr.  Bul- 
mer  came  home,  whistling  and  singing : 

"There's  music  in  the  parlor, 
To  give  the  house  a  tone. 
There's  something  every  evening 
In  Maggie  Murphy's  home.  .  .  ." 
37 


*$  CALIBAN  IB 

And  on  Saturday  afternoon  they  all  took  the 
steamer  from  Chelsea  Pier  to  Greenwich,  and  had  a 
shrimp  tea.  Then  "It"  began  again,  and  when  his 
mother  picked  up  the  Daily  Telegraph  and  kicked  the 
Financial  Times  down  nine  front-door  stone  steps, 
he  guessed  "It"  must  be  money.  He  was  interested 
in  the  Financial  Times,  which  Mr.  Bulmer  now  took 
instead  of  the  Financial  News,  because  it  had  just 
been  created,  and  he  liked  being  up-to-date.  Some- 
times Bulmer  came  down  in  his  dressing-gown,  well 
before  breakfast,  and  read  it,  sitting  hunched  up 
against  the  umbrella-stand.  It  was  mainly  jargon, 
but  attractive.  It  wasn't  so  much  the  idea  of  mak- 
ing money,  but  this  talk  of  tea-plantations  in  Ceylon, 
of  railways  in  South  America,  of  companies,  of  amal- 
gamating capital,  was  exciting.  A  window  upon  the 
world.  By  degrees  he  came  to  understand  the  mech- 
anism of  limited  liability,  followed  the  rise  and  fall 
of  favorite  shares,  much  as  some  of  his  schoolmates 
followed  the  progress  of  Kent  or  of  the  Blackburn 
Rovers.  Reconstruction  of  companies  and  the 
writing-off  of  capital  were  most  exciting. 

This  education  produced  its  fruits  about  the 
middle  of  the  disturbed  period.  For  The  Wykeham- 
ist had,  in  its  way,  been  a  success.  Expiring  after 
the  seventh  number,  and  having  achieved  a  total 
sale  of  about  four  hundred  and  sixty,  at  a  cost  of 
production  of  less  than  a  half  penny  a  number,  Bul- 
mer had  made  over  six  pounds,  for,  of  course,  the 
contributors  were  not  paid.  He  kept  this  secret, 
partly  because  it  might  cost  him  his  pocket-money, 
and  mainly  because  he  knew  the  money  would  be 
forced  into  a  bank  to  do  him  good  when  he  was 

38 


*8  PRELUDE  *5? 

grown  up  and  didn't  want  it.  Moreover,  he  wanted 
to  buy  an  encyclopedia,  having  found  out  in  odd 
volumes  of  this  work,  which  Mr.  Clamart  used  to 
raise  the  piano-stool,  that  there  was  enormous  in- 
terest in  reading,  first  about  Confucius,  and  then 
about  Conger  eels.  He  often  searched  Charing 
Cross  Road,  accompanied  by  Tarland,  who  was  a 
nuisance,  however,  as  he  persistently  dug  out  old 
numbers  of  the  Amateur  Mechanic.  Just  as  Bulmer 
was  engaging  in  complicated  negotiations  destined 
to  knock  down  an  almost  complete  set  from  six- 
pounds-fifteen,  he  came  across  the  advertisement  of 
an  outside  broker.  He  called  personally  for  a  pros- 
pectus, and  discovered  that,  with  five  pounds  de- 
posited as  margin,  he  could  buy  or  sell  fifty  shares, 
or  a  hundred  pounds'  worth  of  debentures,  handle 
hundreds  of  pounds  with  tens.  This  produced  in 
him  a  disturbance  almost  volcanic,  not  that  he  de- 
sired money,  beyond  fifteen  shillings  for  the  encyclo- 
pedia, but  this  idea  of  handling  large  sums,  of  being, 
in  a  way,  a  power  in  the  market,  was  irresistible. 
He  did  not  take  his  first  step  hurriedly.  Three  times 
he  nearly  bought  Berthas,  then  fortunately  drew 
back.  At  last  he  realized  that  markets  cannot 
always  go  up,  nor  always  go  down,  that  if  a  share 
moved  at  all  there  must  be  a  turning-point.  The 
thing  to  do  was  to  find  the  turning-point  and  turn 
with  it.  Thus,  he  came  to  buy  Yangtse-Kiang  Con- 
cessions, which  for  some  time  had  been  running  up 
and  up,  starting  at  two  shillings,  leaping  to  six, 
tottering  for  a  moment  round  seven,  and  then  gain- 
ing threepence  to  ninepence  a  day,  until  they  stood 

at  eighteen  shillings.    They  had  paid  no  dividend; 
4  39 


*8  CALIBAN  °$ 

nobody  knew  why  they  rose,  and  for  several  days 
Bulmer  watched  them.  Seventeen  and  nine,  eighteen 
shillings,  eighteen  and  three  .  .  .  seventeen  and  nine 
again,  eighteen  and  six  . . .  eighteen  and  a  penny  half- 
penny. .  .  .  Instinct  told  him  that  a  few  people  were 
still  buying,  but  that  other  people  were  selling  out. 
That  was  why  the  price  varied  so  little.  Soon 
something  must  happen,  because  those  who  hadn't 
sold  out  would  get  frightened  when  the  rise 
stopped.  Then  all  would  want  to  sell  out.  Now 
was  the  time. 

So  he  called  again  on  the  outside  brokers  in  Cop- 
thall  Avenue.  The  head  clerk,  a  German,  did  not 
suspect  the  young  man  of  being  a  minor,  for  Bulmer, 
though  short,  was  very  self-possessed.  But  what 
he  could  not  believe  was  that  the  young  man  wanted 
to  sell  fifty  Yangs. 

" Sell? "  he  said.     "You  mean  buy." 

"No,  I  want  to  sell." 

"You  want  to  sell  a  bear?"  said  the  man,  staring. 
(Bucket-shops  are  not  accustomed  to  greenhorns  who 
sell  bears;  catching  flats  on  the  bull  tack  is  nearer 
their  mark.) 

"Yes,"  said  Bulmer,  "they're  going  down,"  and 
put  down  his  five-pound  note. 

He  was  right.    Nothing  sensational  happened  to 

Yangs.    After  four  days  the  sellers  forced  down  the 

price  to  fourteen  shillings,  after  which  the  shares 

recovered   and   tottered   round   the   fifteen   figure. 

Bulmer  did  not  succeed  in  buying  back  his  shares  at 

lowest,  but  still,  after  paying  brokerage  and  stamps, 

he  cleared  over  seven  pounds.     Unfortunately  he 

could  not  keep  this  to  himself;  success  is  the  enemy 

40 


°e  PRELUDE  *8 

- 

of  secrecy.  It  was  not  quite  his  fault.  After  supper, 
when  "It"  showed  signs  of  beginning,  Mrs.  Bulmer 
sat  like  a  juggler  who  has  swallowed  his  sword  up  to 
the  hilt,  and  Mr.  Bulmer  remarked: 

"Damn  those  Yangs!" 

"Herbert!"  said  Mrs.  Bulmer,  "not  before  the 
children.' ' 

But  Mr.  Bulmer  was  exasperated.  "Oh,  I'm  sick 
of  all  this  hiding,  Edie.  They'd  better  know,  since 
we're  all  going  to  the  workhouse." 

"Please  control  yourself,  Herbert.  Is  it  not 
enough  that  my  children's  father  should  be  a  gam- 
bler without  their  having  to  know  it?"  She  grew 
very  red:  "And  instead  of  going  down  on  your 
bended  knees  because  you  still  have  a  roof  over  your 
head,  you  sit  there  .  .  .  swearing!  Of  course  Yangs 
went  down;  I  told  you  so." 

"Damn!"  bellowed  Mr.  Bulmer,  "if  you  tell  me 
you  told  me  so  again  I'll  ...  I'll  emigrate." 

"Oh,  the  bailiff  '11  find  you  in  New  Zealand,"  said 
Mrs.  Bulmer,  acidly. 

It  went  on,  though  Mrs.  Bulmer  tried  to  change 
the  subject.     Then  Richard  said  something  idiotic. 

"I  knew  Yangs  'd  go  down." 

"Oh,  did  you?  "  said  Mr.  Bulmer,  ferociously.  "I 
suppose  you'll  tell  me  you  told  me  so,  next.  And 
what  do  you  know  about  it?" 

"Oh,  nothing.     Only  I  sold  a  bear." 

Everybody  stared  at  him.  Then  Mrs.  Bulmer,  in 
a  thin,  pale-yellow  voice,  whispered,  "Richard,  you 
haven't  been  gambling?" 

"I  don't  know  about  gambling,  but  I  made  seven 

pounds." 

41 


«  CALIBAN  °£ 


Mr.  Bulmer  stared  at  him;    then,  without  logic, 
said: 

"  You  sold  while  I  bought?    You've  been  working 
against  your  father." 

"Well,  you  didn't  tell  me,"  said  Richard,  feeling 
guilty  all  the  same. 

Then  "It"  began  properly.  One  father,  one  mother, 
and  two  sisters  demonstrated  to  Richard  that  he 
was  an  unnatural  child,  that  he  must  have  got  into 
low  company,  with  those  vulgar  young  men  in  the 
billiard-saloon.  It  was  asserted  that  he  would  prob- 
ably end  in  the  workhouse,  also  in  jail,  also  walk 
the  Embankment  without  soles  to  his  boots.  Finally 
he  was  docked  of  pocket-money  for  a  month.  As 
Richard  went  to  bed  he  reflected:  "Fined  half  a 
crown  a  week  for  a  month.  Ten  shillings  down. 
Won  seven  pounds.  Net  profit,  six  pounds  ten.  It 
pays,  but  it's  damn  noisy." 

But  events  hurried  on.  Mr.  Bulmer  had  fluttered 
in  a  great  many  Yangs.  A  few  days  later  the  com- 
pany's title  was  questioned,  the  shares  crashed  a 
shilling  at  a  time,  and  before  the  end  of  the  account 
no  jobber  would  take  them  on  his  books.  It  began 
again,  with  the  addition  of  Uncle  Hesketh,  a  brewer, 
who,  having  retired  just  before  brewery  shares  began 
to  slump,  knew  everything.  Something  more  was 
done  to  the  insurance  policy.  It  was  very  unpleas- 
ant, for  two  days  later  there  was  a  man  in  possession, 
and  everybody  looked  as  if  they'd  committed  a 
crime  and,  what  was  worse,  expected  to  be  found 
out.  Except  Henrietta.  She  said  she  was  sorry  for 
the  man;  such  a  nasty  trade;  and  made  him  cocoa. 
All  this  revealed  to  Bulmer  why  the  talk  of  his 

42 


«  PRELUDE  U 

university  career  had  gone  down  and  down.  The 
idea  of  gaining  an  exhibition  had  long  been  aban- 
doned. Only  one  boy  from  Winchester  House  had 
ever  won  anything,  and  that  one  stayed  only  three 
months,  after  which  his  parents,  who  had  come  into 
a  fortune,  sent  him  somewhere  else.  Richard  did  not 
know  what  was  going  to  happen  to  him.  He  asked 
once  or  twice,  but  his  father  told  him  either  that 
everything  would  be  all  right  by  Thursday  or  that 
he  was  improvident  and  no  good  to  any  one,  and  was 
considering  whether  cutting  his  throat  or  hanging 
himself  was  preferable.  Eleanor  was  out  all  day,  doing 
something  which  she  kept  secret,  while  Mrs.  Buhner 
merely  grew  stiff  and  told  her  son  that  everything 
would  be  done  for  him  that  was  right  and  proper. 
As  for  Henrietta,  she  was  sympathetic,  but  talked 
like  an  imbecile  about  blacking  their  faces  and  play- 
ing the  banjo  in  a  music-hall. 

"I  suppose,"  he  thought,  as  he  watched  the 
cricket  in  the  Paddington  Recreation  Ground,  "that 
I  shall  have  to  do  what  I  want.  They  don't  want 
to  do  anything.  They  think  if  you  do  things  you're 
not  genteel.  Suppose  I  should  be  a  clerk."  He  was 
depressed,  but  dreamed  of  smart  London  night-life, 
of  which  echoes  came  to  him  through  Selby  and  Mr. 
Clamart;  playing  whist  for  high  stakes,  champagne 
wine,  ladies  in  tights  and  crimson  sequins,  young 
bloods  fighting  cabmen  for  a  quid,  and  pugilists 
getting  tight  with  noblemen.  Then  vigor  returned 
to  him ;  he  was  still  too  young  to  remain  pessimistic 
or  optimistic.  He  merely  thought:  "I'll  be  rich. 
By  God,  I'll  be  rich!"    Then  he  remembered  Uncle 

Hesketh,  who  had  asked  him  how  much  was  four 

43 


«  CALIBAN  * 

and  a  half  per  cent,  on  one  hundred  and  twenty-five 
pounds  for  a  year,  and  hurried  on  lest  he  should 
guess  right,  and  talked  about  a  boy  knowing  his 
place  in  life.    "Til  be  free,  by  God,  I'll  be  free." 

A  girl  passed.  She  was  quite  young,  and  wore  a 
fawn  cloth  bolero  with  black  braid  trimmings,  and 
a  great,  frilled  skirt,  with  many  blue  bows.  He  looked 
after  her. 

"Tidy  bit  of  goods,"  he  said,  half  aloud.  She 
must  have  heard  him,  for  she  turned  and  flung  him 
a  sideways,  soft  brown  glance.  She  looked  at  him 
with  great  severity,  as  if  she  were  shocked.  Recog- 
nizing this  as  the  way  of  his  period  when  consenting 
to  approach,  he  followed  her. 

Her  name  was  Annie.  Her  room  was  on  the  fourth 
floor  of  a  house  in  Walterton  Road.  Many  dirty 
children  played  on  the  steps,  and  from  the  cornice 
the  stucco  was  peeling.  It  was  not  his  first  visit  to 
that  district,  for  one  saw  life  early  at  Winchester 
House.  He  did  not  care  for  women  much:  they 
were  an  amusement  of  sorts,  like  the  theater  or  the 
harriers.  As  he  took  Annie  upon  his  knee,  and  she 
removed  the  bolero  (she  said  so  that  he  might  not 
crumple  it),   he  felt  cheerful   and  confident. 


Chapter  VI 
Growing  Up 

RICHARD  was  not  unhappy  in  the  city.  He  was 
a  clerk  at  thirty  shillings  a  week  in  the  offices  of 
Blakeney,  Sons  &  Co.,  Indian  import  merchants,  in 
Leadenhall  Street.  Though  he  never  said  so,  he  had 
never  wanted  to  go  to  Oxford,  for  they  only  taught 
you  a  lot  of  rot  like  Latin  and  Greek.  A  certain 
lack  of  sensuality  made  the  rumors  of  wines  and 
binges  unappealing;  nor,  though  he  was  a  fair  bat, 
and  a  rather  foxy,  though  light  half-back  did  he 
desire  to  earn  a  blue.  Sometimes,  as  he  made  for 
Leadenhall  Street  on  a  City  Atlas,  highly  painted, 
very  dashing,  that  a  coachman  of  the  past,  who  wore 
a  curly-brimmed  silk  hat,  drove  at  a  rattling  speed 
and  without  stopping  down  Baker  Street  and  Ox- 
ford Street,  and  on,  he  thought  he  had  been  damn 
lucky  to  escape  the  mold  of  Oxford  and  the  mildew 
of  its  learning. 

For  the  city  was  reality.  He  did  not  mind  keep- 
ing the  stamp-book,  nor  taking  wet  copies  in  the 
press,  nor,  later,  posting  a  ledger.  Every  Saturday 
he  liked  the  feel  of  his  thirty  shillings.  He  liked 
cigarettes  (though  still  rather  fond  of  cocoanut  bar). 
He  liked  to  pay  for  a  seat  at  the  Euston  or  the 
Holloway,  to  which  he  often  went  with  Tarland, 
and  occasionally  with  Annie.     And  later  with  those 

45 


*$  CALIBAN  ^ 

who  replaced  Annie.  He  felt  half  free,  and  had  a 
sense  of  luxury  when,  at  a  cheap  tavern  in  Leaden- 
hall  Street,  he  paid  for  their  excellent  cut  off  the 
joint,  price  sixpence;  or  sometimes  he  went  to  the 
Ten-Ounce  Chop,  in  Aldgate,  where  he  solemnly 
read  a  broken-backed  Whitaker  behind  the  sizzling 
sausages  and  the  steaming,  massed  greens.  He  en- 
joyed money,  for  he  liked  things.  The  profits  of 
The  Wykehamist,  and  later,  those  of  the  flutter  in 
Yangs,  had  not  only  bought  him  the  encyclopedia, 
but  various  Whitakers,  odd  volumes  of  the  States- 
man's Year-Booky  dictionaries,  and  exciting  collec- 
tions of  facts,  such  as  Races  of  the  World,  The  Hun- 
dred Best  Books,  the  Railway  Annual.  From  time 
to  time  he  faced  temptation,  such  as  the  summer 
during  which  he  ached  for  one  of  the  new  bicycles 
with  Dunlop  tires.     But  facts  won. 

All  this  distracted  him  from  what  was  going  on 
at  Carlton  Vale,  though  nothing  need  have  impressed 
him  very  much,  because  in  the  class  of  half-poor, 
painfully  genteel,  restricted  people  to  which  he  be- 
longed everything  happened,  but  never  on  the  sur- 
face. When  the  man  in  possession  was  in  the  house 
Mrs.  Bulmer  had  given  a  little  tea-party,  and  the 
man  in  possession  had  been  persuaded  to  play  in 
the  front  garden  with  a  rake.  As  Mrs.  Bulmer  put 
it,  it  all  passed  off  very  nicely;  and,  indeed,  Mrs. 
Sandford  took  him  for  the  gardener.  So  nice! 
That  was  how  things  happened  in  Carlton  Vale. 
Then  Eleanor  declared  that  practising  alone  every 
day  was  so  dull,  and  didn't  help  to  keep  up  her 
music.  Of  course  she  could  take  lessons,  but  she 
didn't  think  she  could  find  a  suitable  teacher  in 

46 


H  GROWING  UP  *8? 

London,  and  she  couldn't  very  well  go  to  Dresden 
because  her  mother  needed  her.  Still  she  had  to  do 
something,  and  it  struck  her  that  giving  a  few  lessons 
just  to  two  or  three  select  pupils  would  keep  her 
hand  in.  So  Eleanor  kept  her  hand  in,  charging 
one-and-six  an  hour,  and  as  she  was  firm  and  con- 
scientious, did  rather  well,  for  soon  she  was  out 
every  morning  and  afternoon.  Henrietta,  as  the 
Bulmer  fortunes  suffered  more  and  more,  followed 
as  subtle  a  line.  Mrs.  Bulmer  said  she  had  no 
patience  with  girls  who  were  always  gadding  and  gal- 
livanting outside  the  Oxford  Street  drapers'  shops 
or  mooning  about  inside  the  house.  So  the  servant 
was  replaced  by  a  little  girl,  and  Henrietta  made 
the  beds;  then  the  little  girl  was  replaced  by  a 
little  morning  girl,  and  Mrs.  Bulmer  cooked  the 
meals  while  Henrietta  swept,  and  cleaned  the  brass, 
but  not  the  grates.  She  grew  so  capable  that  the 
little  morning  girl  was  replaced  by  an  occasional 
charwoman,  for  somebody  had  to  whiten  the  front 
door-steps,  and  there  were  things  the  Buhners  could 
not  do. 

Mr.  Bulmer  did  not  seem  to  notice  much  of  this. 
The  change  which  had  begun  to  come  over  him  four 
or  five  years  before  grew  more  accentuated;  his 
pink  complexion  became  pinker;  he  understood  less 
clearly,  but  what  he  understood  he  retained  more 
obstinately;  he  had  never  liked  exercise,  and  now 
he  reduced  his  Sunday  afternoon  walk — formerly 
Carlton  Vale  to  Marble  Arch  and  back— to  the 
shorter  run  of  Carlton  Vale  to  the  Canal.  Some- 
times he  surreptitiously  took  an  omnibus  and  hid 
himself  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  Hamilton  Ter- 

47 


%  CALIBAN  12 

race  churchyard,  so  that  Mrs.  Bulmer  might  not 
know  that  he  had  dodged  part  of  his  walk.  His 
arteries  were  hardening;  he  was  growing  slower; 
as  the  earnings  of  his  household  increased  his  went 
down.  His  few  clients,  who,  for  a  long  time,  had 
given  orders  to  "slow  old  Bulmer"  because  they 
liked  him,  began  to  give  them  to  "poor  old  Bulmer" 
because  they  were  sorry  for  him.  And  they  gave 
less  work  to  the  man  they  were  sorry  for  than  to 
the  man  they  had  liked.  He  did  not  mind.  He  had 
never  in  his  life  read  anything  but  the  newspapers 
or  a  novel.  Now  he  wanted  a  simpler  kind  of  novel, 
something  that  demanded  no  thought.  Having 
come  across  some  Henty  presented  to  Richard  by 
Uncle  Hesketh,  he  enjoyed  it  very  much;  he  went 
on  to  Ballantyne,  to  Captain  Marryat;  at  last  he 
began  to  browse  in  the  bound  volumes  of  the  Boys1 
Own  Paper,  and  when  one  day  Richard,  who  now 
mixed  contempt  for  his  father  with  more  love  and 
much  pity,  offered  him  a  very  damaged  Chatterbox 
on  which  Henrietta,  twenty  years  before,  had  upset 
a  plajbe  of  mutton  broth,  Mr.  Bulmer  read  it,  and 
smiled  without  any  sense  of  irony. 

Then  Mrs.  Bulmer,  who  had  only  sixty  pounds  a 
year — fortunately  tied  up — found  that  the  pound  a 
week  or  so  that  Eleanor  brought  in,  and  the  fifteen 
shillings  a  week  which  Richard  gave,  did  not  meet 
the  deficit  in  Mr.  Buhner's  income.  It  took  her 
three  months  to  resolve  upon  a  lodger.  She  had 
awful  fears  of  apartment  cards  in  the  window  and 
what  people  would  say.  But  she  was  lucky,  for  a 
relative  in  Germany  of  a  nice  lady  whose  acquaint- 
ance she  had  made  while  they  were  both  waiting 

48 


*»  GROWING  UP  °£ 

to  interview  charwomen  in  the  High  Street  registry- 
was  looking  for  an  English  family,  preferably  musi- 
cal and  rich  in  young  society,  for  her  nephew  who  was 
coming  to  England  as  a  volunteer  in  a  city  firm. 
Hence,  Mr.  Karl  Verden.  The  young  man  was  in- 
offensive. He  was  very  pink,  very  short,  had  gentle 
blue  eyes  behind  spectacles,  and  his  yellow  hair 
stood  up  like  the  crest  of  a  cockatoo.  In  the  evening 
he  played  Chopin  tenderly,  and  by  degrees  Henrietta 
joined  him  in  duets;  by  growing  degrees  their  hands 
lingered  over  the  duets,  and  Chopin  grew  more  and 
more  sentimental.  Mr.  Verden  was  not  in  the  way. 
He  went  out  early  and  came  home  late.  When 
spoken  to  he  bowed,  until  Eleanor  cured  him.  And, 
being  full  of  gentility,  he  never  soiled  Mrs.  Buhner's 
hands  with  money,  but  left  the  weekly  twenty-five 
shillings  in  a  sealed  envelope  addressed  to  her,  and 
half  hidden  under  the  plated  card-dish.  Mr.  Verden 
could  be  explained  away.  The  friend's  friend  in 
Germany  became  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Bulmer's  in  Ger- 
many; Mr.  Verden,  the  nephew,  became  the  son, 
then  a  little  German  baby  whom  she  had  dandled  in 
the  long  ago,  and  who  now,  having  come  to  London, 
wanted  a  mother.  "What  could  I  do?  Could  I 
refuse?"  asked  Mrs.  Buhner,  pathetically,  at  tea. 
People  thought  she  had  a  kind  heart. 

As  the  year  passed  the  situation  defined  itself. 
Henrietta  was  nearly  twenty-seven.  Of  course  she 
had  nice  hair  and  a  good  skin.  .  .  .  "Pity  she's  so 
sallow,"  thought  Mrs.  Bulmer,  who  admired  only 
white  and  rose.  There  was  no  hurry  for  her  to  get 
married.  But  still.  Of  course,  Mr.  Verden  was  only 
twenty-one.    Still,  she'd  known  lots  of  cases  .  .  . 

49 


*g  CALIBAN  % 

It  really  looked  as  if  it  might  come  off,  for  Mr. 
Verden  wrote  beautiful  German  verses  in  Henrietta's 
album,  all  about  love  that  is  like  a  little  flower,  and 
the  golden  cloud  that  hangs  on  the  mountain's  brow. 
Henrietta  was  very  fond  of  her  album.  It  was 
bound  in  red  plush,  and  the  word  "Album,"  in 
nickel,  was  boldly  stamped  upon  the  flat.  Some- 
times, in  her  bedroom,  she  would  read  the  beautiful 
things  written  by  school  friends  in  days  gone  by. 
She  thought  of  Kathleen,  who  had  written: 

Give  every  answer  pat, 
Your  character  true  unfurl, 

And  when  time  is  ripe 

You  will  then  be  the  type 
Of  a  capital  Irish  girl. 

Dear  girl!    Pity  her  hair  was  carroty.     There  was 
Annabel,  too.     Her  contribution  was  very  edifying: 

111  that  He  blesses  is  our  good, 

And  unblest  good  is  ill; 
And  all  is  right  that  seems  most  wrong 

If  it  be  His  sweet  will. 

Poor  Annabel!  In  those  days  she  wanted  to  be 
a  nun,  but  now  she  was  a  pity.  Henrietta  did  not 
care  to  think  of  the  latest  report  of  Annabel.  Rather 
would  she  dwell  upon  the  womanly  advice  of  her 
drawing-mistress : 

Whatever  you  are,  be  that, 

Whatever  you  say,  be  true. 
Straightforwardly  act,  be  honest, 

In  fact,  be  nobody  else  but  you. 
50 


°S  GROWING  UP  *$ 

"Ah!"  sighed  Henrietta,  "if  only  one  could !" 
Then  she  went  down-stairs  because  her  mother  was 
calling  her  to  help  find  her  little  bag.  Mrs.  Buhner 
was  always  losing  her  little  bag,  except  when  the 
thing  she  missed  was  the  cellar  key. 

Richard  found  himself  more  and  more  removed 
from  the  microcosm  of  home.  He  was  thinking  of 
life,  while  they  were  thinking  of  living.  He  found 
the  future  most  confusing,  for  he  was  quite  sure  that 
he  was  not  going  to  stay  in  the  City  at  thirty  shillings 
a  week,  but  he  did  not  know  how  to  get  out.  He 
went  seriously  into  this  with  Tarland  one  evening, 
as  they  strolled  up  to  Hampstead.  Tarland,  who 
was  working  for  the  South  Kensington  Science  and 
Arts  degree,  was  little  interested,  because  he  would 
clearly  be  an  engineer,  and,  in  due  course,  dam  the 
Nile,  or  bridge  Niagara,  or  something.  But  between 
the  two  existed  the  friendship  of  boys — that  is  to 
say,  each  in  turn  talked  exclusively  of  himself  and 
his  future,  and  the  other  interrupted  when  he  got 
a  chance.  Bulmer  was  the  more  successful  of  the 
two.     On  this  occasion  he  said: 

"I've  been  looking  up  histories  of  all  sorts  of 
people.  Now,  the  point  is,  how  do  they  get  on? 
Take  Napoleon,  for  instance.  I  can  follow  him  all 
right  as  an  officer  in  the  artillery.  Then,  pop!  he's 
a  general.  Or  take  Manning.  He's  all  right  until  he 
gets  to  be  an  archdeacon  and  goes  over  to  Rome. 
But  there's  nothing  to  tell  you  how  he  jumps  from 
a  sort  of  priest  to  Archbishop.  There's  gaps  in  their 
careers.  Now,  if  one  only  knew  how  one  gets  on, 
step  by  step,  one  might  be  able  to  do  it.  Take  the 
MeDai  Bridge,  Britannia  Bridge,  I  mean;    Robert 

51 


^  CALIBAN  *% 


9> 


Stephenson   didn't  build   anything   like   it   before; 
what  did  he  do  to  make  them  pitch  on  him?" 

They  passed  some  evenings  analyzing  the  proc- 
esses of  talent.  They  were  too  young  to  understand 
the  imaginative  leap  which  must  be  made  by  the 
people  who  give  genius  its  chance.  Being  material- 
ists they  granted  nothing  to  luck;  both  practical, 
they  could  not  believe  that  a  man  got  his  oppor- 
tunity as  he  might  get  measles.  They  did  not  see 
the  world  as  an  ill-disciplined  dog-kennel;  they  had 
enough  illusion  to  imagine  the  progress  of  individ- 
uals as  that  of  a  soldier  who  is  first  private,  then 
corporal,  then  sergeant,  and  so  on.  Hence  their 
difficulty.  Tarland  was  fairly  comfortable;  he  be- 
lieved in  Edison,  Moissan,  and  Faraday,  but  Bulmer 
wanted  a  non-scientific  god.  For  some  time  he  tried 
to  worship  Cavour,  Talleyrand,  and  Machiavelli,  but 
as  at  bottom  he  despised  cunning,  he  gave  his  alle- 
giance to  Napoleon.  This  because  he  went  in  for 
lots  of  things,  not  only  fighting,  but  making  laws, 
setting  up  theaters,  bagging  the  tobacco  crop.  He 
liked  Napoleon  because  he  did  things  rather  than 
because  he  did  anything  in  particular.  He  wanted 
money  as  power  rather  than  as  money,  and  spat 
contempt  after  wasting  twopence  on  a  copy  of 
Fortunate  Men  and  How  They  Made  Their  Fortunes. 
Wasted  twopence  on  Samuel  Smiles  and  his  pi-jaw! 

It  was  in  this  incoherence  that  he  grew  up.  When 
he  was  twenty  his  father  died.  He  died  quietly, 
without  dignity,  without  producing  an  effect  either 
of  comedy  or  tragedy.  He  had  been  a  long  time 
over  it.  They  buried  him,  received  what  was  left 
of  the  two-thousand-pound  insurance  policy,  after 

52 


*»  GROWING  UP  °g 

paying  off  eleven  hundred  in  mortgages.  Mrs.  Bul- 
mer  bought  great  quantities  of  crape;  Henrietta 
stopped  crying  when  Eleanor  told  her  that  her  nose 
was  getting  as  red  as  a  tomato;  Richard  collected 
the  Hen  ties  and  the  Ballantynes  and  swapped  the 
lot  for  two  volumes  of  the  Century  Dictionary.  He 
had  other  things  to  think  of,  for  recently  he  had 
joined  the  North  West  London  Literary  and  De- 
bating Society.  The  Literary  he  said  could  go  to 
the  devil  for  all  he  cared,  but  give  him  the  Debating. 
Also,  the  society  had  a  monthly  journal. 


Part  II 
INCIPIT  VITA  NOVA 


Will  there  never  come  a  season 

When  mankind  shall  be  delivered 

From  the  clash  of  magazines, 
And  the  inkstand  shall  be  shivered 

Into  countless  smithereens, 
When  there  stands  a  muzzled  stripling 

Mute,  beside  a  muzzled  bore, 
When  the  Rudyards  cease  from  Kipling 

And  the  Haggards  Ride  no  more? 

— J.  K.  Stephen. 


Chapter  I 
Running  in  Blank 

BULMER  was  twenty-one,  and  yet  he  was  very 
happy.  Against  the  misty  background  of  Blake- 
ney,  Sons  &  Co.,  who  now  paid  him  thirty-five  shil- 
lings a  week— and  might  one  day  pay  him  two-pounds- 
ten,  there  detached  itself  a  rose-crowned  pygmy,  the 
Journal  of  the  North  West  London  Literary  and  De- 
bating Society,  the  Eldee,  as  its  pet  name  went.  The 
Journal  had,  for  some  years,  existed  in  a  troglodytic 
way,  printed  in  smudgy  type,  its  lines  irregularly 
leaded,  without  columns,  without  paragraphs,  with- 
out grace.  It  had  published  many  reports  of  lectures, 
the  main  object  of  which  was  to  record  that  Miss 
So-and-so  was  present,  and  that  Mr.  So-and-so  pro- 
posed a  vote  of  thanks.  Once  it  had  tried  a  discus- 
sion, "Is  England  in  decay?"  but  that  soon  died  out 
because  everybody  thought  that  the  works  of  man, 
except  the  Eldee,  were  in  decay. 

A  spirit  had  to  pass  over  the  placid  surface  of 
those  shallow  waters.  Bulmer,  who  entered  the 
committee  much  as  lava  entered  Pompeii,  found 
himself,  at  first,  paralyzed  by  amazement.  He  had 
not  expected  much  of  the  committee,  but  he  had  not 
expected  this;  it  needed  a  long  life  to  make  him 
realize  that  all  committees,  whether  of  the  Eldee  or 
of  the  Cabinet,  are  like  this.     Nobody  talked  about 

57 


•g     CALIBAN jE 

the  Journal,  but  everybody  talked  about  what  he 
or  she  wanted  to  do  to  the  Journal.  Thus,  Miss 
Murrow,  who  always  looked  virulent  as  she  peered 
through  her  glasses,  saw  the  Journal  as  a  political 
instrument  of  broad  progress.  Miss  Murrow  was 
small,  thin,  and  an  air  of  false  authority  was  given 
her  by  her  nose.  She  generally  wore  mittens,  not 
because  she  was  old-fashioned — oh,  very  far  from 
that — but  because  she  was  liable  to  chilblains.  She 
used  to  enter  Mrs.  TirriPs  drawing-room,  where  the 
meetings  were  held,  trotting  small  as  a  mouse,  smil- 
ing ingratiatingly,  sit  down  full  of  consideration  for 
the  arm-chair,  and  then  try  to  shrink  into  her  own 
shadow.  Following  on  this  unobtrusive  entry,  Miss 
Murrow,  in  a  thin  and  humble  voice,  would  give 
vent  to  the  most  revolutionary  sentiments.  Men 
were  beasts  and  ought  to  be  shut  up,  the  key  of  the 
prison  being  thrown  into  the  sea.  Marriage  was  a 
failure.  The  imposition  of  skirts  on  women  was  out- 
rageous (there  was  a  flavor  of  bloomers  about  Miss 
Murrow;  she  did  not  wear  bloomers,  but  there  was 
about  her  a  latent  bloomerishness).  As  she  had 
joined  the  Fabian  Society  and  could  combine  in  a 
single  sentence  Imperial  Federation  and  Municipal 
Milk,  she  seemed  quite  a  dangerous  character.  Also, 
she  was  the  only  member  of  the  committee  who 
smoked  cigarettes.  Miss  Murrow's  main  trouble 
existed  in  Mrs.  Tirril,  a  widow  of  thirty-five,  Irish, 
fat,  jolly,  black-haired,  and  blue-eyed,  for  Miss 
Murrow  always  felt  that  Mrs.  Tirril  was  not  public- 
spirited.  Indeed,  Mrs.  Tirril  read  The  Yellow  Book, 
and  sometimes  left  it  undesirably  open.  Miss  Mur- 
row thought  that  Aubrey  Beardsley  did  not  make 

58 


*%  RUNNING  IN  BLANK  *8 


for  economic  righteousness.  But  Mrs.  Tirril  was  the 
only  member  who  could  lend  the  committee  a  room, 
for  Miss  Murrow  kept  house  for  two  old  parents, 
who  treated  her,  a  spinster  of  fifty,  like  a  child,  and 
shrilly  declared  that  her  occupations  were  all  stuff 
and  nonsense,  and  that  as  for  having  committees  in 
the  house,  cluttering  it  up  with  bits  of  paper,  and 
frightening  the  cat  .  .  .  well,  they'd  never  heard  of 
such  a  thing.  It  was  no  use  asking  Mr.  Brill;  he 
concealed  his  discreet  person  in  a  boarding-house  in 
Chalk  Farm.  The  Journal  went  to  him  direct  at  the 
bank  where  he  was  a  clerk.  When  asked  for  his 
address,  he  replied  with  an  air  of  seraphic  melan- 
choly, "I  am  a  stranger  here;  heaven  is  my  home." 
As  for  Mr.  Wartle's  shop,  Miss  Murrow  felt  that  a 
shop  was  not  quite  nice,  and  anyhow  it  would  be 
depressing  to  sit  among  the  coffins. 

She  had  to  bear  Mrs.  Tirril.  Indeed,  soon  after 
Bulmer  joined  the  committee,  Professor  Stanton  and 
his  brow  came  to  her  house  to  lecture  on  Shake- 
speare's women.  The  forty-odd  members,  two- thirds 
of  them  women,  listened  to  the  end,  wept  a  little 
over  the  griefs  of  Ophelia  and  Desdemona,  pawns  of 
a  sable  fate.  Portia  raised  in  Miss  Murrow  an  un- 
governable desire  to  get  up  and  say  something,  and 
she  was  restrained  only  by  the  majesty  of  the  dome- 
like brow,  that  gleamed  white,  as  if  "  sicklied  o'er  by 
the  pale  cast  of  thought."  Professor  Stanton  was  a 
success.  He  alluded  to  Rosalind's  male  attire;  this, 
too,  stimulated  in  Miss  Murrow  a  latent  bloomerish- 
ness;  indeed,  she  broke  out  into  a  passionate  defense 
of  the  rights  of  women,  which  meandered  away  into 
a  plea  for  rational  dress. 

59 


U  CALIBAN  *% 

Bulmer  volunteered  to  arrange  the  lecture  for  in- 
sertion in  the  Journal,  but  was  thwarted  by  Mr. 
Wartle,  a  comfortable  undertaker  in  Kilburn  High 
Road.  He  had  difficulties  with  Mr.  Wartle. 
The  undertaker  was  a  very  large,  heavy  man  of 
about  fifty,  who  could  not  succeed  in  assuming  the 
melancholy  expression  required  by  his  profession. 
He  was  born  pink,  but  grew  up  red;  he  had  repressed 
his  lower  nature,  as  represented  by  smoking-con- 
certs;  he  let  his  hair  grow  long,  and  oiled  it  straight 
down.  He  wore  a  mustache  and  whiskers,  and 
combed  these  straight  down.  But  it  was  no  good; 
secret  jollity  expressed  itself  obscene  in  his  brown 
and  unprofessional  eyes.  It  was  this  secret  cheer- 
fulness which  thrust  Mr.  Wartle  into  the  company 
of  Great  Writers  and  Great  Thoughts.  And  it  was 
this  which  caused  his  animosity  to  dawn,  because 
Bulmer  said  that  Tennyson  was  all  rot.  He  also 
said  that  if  Emerson  did  say  that  if  a  man  could 
make  the  best  coat  or  write  the  best  book  humanity 
would  tread  the  path  to  his  door,  well,  then,  Emerson 
was  a  damn  fool.  People  didn't  tread  paths  to  your 
door  unless  you  stuck  red  sign-posts  with  green  spots 
all  the  way  to  that  door.  Also,  Bulmer,  having  for- 
gotten to  take  notes  at  the  meeting,  did  not  name 
Mr.  Wartle  among  those  who  were  present.  And 
as  Mr.  Wartle  felt  it  would  be  undignified  to  com- 
plain, he  grew  much  more  angry  than  he  would  have 
been  if  he  had  spoken. 

Miss  Murrow  was  not  pleased  because  Bulmer  put 
in  verses  by  Brill.  She  considered  verses  emollient 
and  deliquescent,  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Indeed, 
they  were  not  very  good  verses.     Brill  was  very 

60 


<TCL> 


12  RUNNING  IN  BLANK  & 


young,  and  his  pimples  were  so  many  that  he  could 
not  release  his  spirit  through  love.  So  his  spirit 
stayed  in  prison  in  the  bank,  and  Buhner  printed  a 
poem  by  him  which  began: 

My  heart  is  as  a  pale  white  flower 
That  seeks  a  haven  in  a  bower, 
Where  rosy  lips  and  lily  hands 
May  soothe  the  efflux  of  my  sands.  .  .  . 

Brill  was  very  pleased.  Also,  Mr.  Wartle  acknowl- 
edged that,  as  Buhner  put  it,  "  poetry  puts  gin- 
ger into  things,  makes  the  page  look  less  like  a 
slab  of  meat."  And  Mrs.  Tirril  was  pleased,  be- 
cause in  one  line  Brill  put  an  "a"  on  to  breast;  she 
felt  that  the  society  was  at  last  making  a  bolt  into 
freedom. 

Indeed,  Bulmer  became  a  successful  editor,  for  he 
soon  realized  that  what  people  wanted  was  to  see 
themselves  in  print.  And  Mrs.  Tirril  published 
Memories  of  My  Childhood.  She  followed  this  up 
with  Memories  of  My  Girlhood;  then  the  series 
stopped  on  a  strong  representation  from  Miss  Mur- 
row;  and,  in  time,  Mr.  Wartle  did  see  his  Rambles 
with  Ruskin  in  print. 

So  Bulmer  was  not  affected  by  all  that  went  on  at 
home;  also,  nothing  was  happening  there  except 
that  Mr.  Verden  had  gone  back  to  Germany,  and 
that  after  believing  he  had  taken  her  heart  with  him 
Henrietta  rediscovered  the  organ  under  the  influence 
of  the  new  lodger,  Mr.  Cocking.  Mr.  Cocking  was 
rather  like  Mr.  Wartle  in  that  he  also  had  been  born 
pink,  but  he  had   grown  up  purple.     And   if  he 

61 


*8  CALIBAN  *K 

brushed  his  hair  up  instead  of  down,  it  was  because 
he  had  turned  into  a  commercial  traveler  instead  of 
an  undertaker.  His  thoughts  were  therefore  more 
centered  on  this  world.  Mr.  Cocking  was  at  home 
only  for  week-ends;  there  was,  in  this,  something 
adventurous  that  moved  Henrietta,  and  when  once 
he  referred  to  himself  as  a  knight  of  the  road,  a 
romantic  halo  descended  on  Sir  Galahad  Cocking; 
her  Galahad  .  .  .  who  could  say — perhaps  her  Lance- 
lot. Mr.  Cocking  liked  Henrietta,  who,  nearly 
thirty,  was  not  ill-looking;  he  liked  her  all  the  more 
because  he  hated  Eleanor,  and  when  he  arrived  home 
on  a  Saturday  afternoon  the  sound  of  his  cheery 
" Hullo!  hullo!  here  we  are  again!"  in  the  hall 
caused,  as  one  of  Henrietta's  novels  put  it,  "the 
imprisoned  bird  to  beat  its  way  into  the  future 
through  the  iron  bars  of  her  heart." 

Bulmer  liked  Cocking  because  Cocking  knew  about 
ink,  in  which  he  traveled,  and  often  they  went  out 
on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  conversing  on  exciting  topics : 
advertisements,  the  speed  of  trains,  and  the  cost  of 
buildings.  Indeed,  his  mother  spoke  to  Richard 
about  it. 

"I  haven't  anything  against  Mr.  Cooking.  He's 
a  little  bluff,  but  a  very  nice  man.  Only  he's  never 
in  the  house.  The  poor  man  might  as  well  have  no 
home.  If  you  hadn't  gone  out  with  him  last  night, 
well,  Hettie  had  brought  back  A  Venetian  Note-book, 
with  illustrations.  I'm  sure  he'd  have  liked  her  to 
show  him  the  pictures." 

Mr.  Cocking  contributed  to  Henrietta's  album. 
His  square  head  perspiringly  held  between  his  fat 
hands,  he  could  think  only  of  one  lyric : 

62 


<g  RUNNING  IN  BLANK ji? 

Fifteen  girls  and  a  parson  tight, 
Toddling  home  in  the  dead  of  night 
In  a  row. 

But  he  felt  this  was  unsuitable  for  a  young  lady.  In 
the  end  he  had  to  copy  something  out  of  Jokes,  Card 
Tricks,  and  Entertainments. 

And  time  went  on,  and  the  Journal  went  on.  And 
its  circulation  rose  from  forty-two  to  fifty-six,  and 
the  lady  member  who  was  modest  wrote  a  short 
story  signed  "Daffodil."  Things  were  going  well, 
and  Mrs.  Tirril  gave  an  evening  party  to  all  the 
members  and  their  friends,  and  provided  squashed- 
fly  biscuits  and  lemonade.  (A  little  claret-cup  for  the 
committee.)  The  society  was  getting  on,  for  a 
neighboring  cleric  had  brought  several  females  who 
sat  in  a  row  (and  made  Buhner  giggle,  for  they  re- 
called Cocking's  lyric).  He  was  an  entertaining 
cleric,  rosy,  middle-aged,  round-faced,  and  hovered 
humorously.  He  asked  Mr.  Wartle,  "  What's  a 
woman's  worth?"  and  when  the  undertaker  gave  it 
up,  replied,  "Double  you,  0  man."  Bulmer  was 
very  busy,  for  he  was  taking  notes  of  the  costumes, 
this  notion  having  been  given  him  by  the  Lady's 
Pictorial.  It  was  bound  to  be  popular.  So  he  went 
round  sedulously:  Miss  Murrow,  pink  cashmere  .  .  . 
noted  also  a  chaste  arrangement  of  purple  velvet  and 
real  lace  ...  he  heard  the  cleric  recite  a  limeric: 

"There  is  an  old  man  of  Uttoxeter 
Who  's  a  wife  and  throws  boots  and  socks  at  her; 
And  when  the  poor  saint 
Goes  off  in  a  faint 
The  brute  absolutely  mocks  at  her." 

63 


*g  CALIBAN 


Mr.  Wartle  took  him  aside  to  insist  on  his  insert- 
ing an  article  on  "  What  we  should  strive  for." 

"  Circulation's  all  we've  got  to  strive  for,"  said 
Buhner. 

"  There  are  deeper  ends,  higher  ends." 

"Ends  can't  be  higher  and  deeper  at  the  same 
time,"  said  Buhner.  Then,  subtly,  "You  don't  feel 
inclined  to  give  us  an  advertisement,  do  you?" 

Mr.  Wartle  looked  meditatively  at  the  assembly. 
He  wondered  if  it  would  pay.  Some  of  them  were 
pretty  old.  But  surely  their  relatives  would  come 
to  him  for  a  coffin,  anyway.  It  was  the  least  they 
could  do  for  the  Eldee. 

Mrs.  Tirril,  flushed  and  flattered,  was  pinned  in  a 
corner  by  the  cleric,  who  recited: 

"In  Denmark  there  was  a  young  Dane,  dear, 
Who  wanted  to  ride  on  a  reindeer, 
He  said,  'Does  it  jolt?' 
They  said,  'Yes,  watch  it  bolt.' 
It  did.    They  buried  him  in  Spain,  dear." 

"Oh,  you  naughty  man,"  said  Mrs.  Tirril,  and, 
skilfully  disengaging  herself,  pretended  to  dance  to 
the  sound  of  bones.  She  was  very  good-looking  that 
night,  though  rather  large  in  her  low-cut  bodice  of 
electric  blue,  with  enormous  puff  sleeves.  As  Miss 
Murrow  put  it,  "If  I  was  as  fat  as  that  I  shouldn't 
wear  such  tight  bodices."  But  Miss  Murrow  wasn't 
fat,  and  therefore  had  good  reason  to  dress  loosely. 

And  still  the  lemonade  poured  forth,  and  a  young 
lady  played  on  the  violin,  and  as  soon  as  she  began 
everybody  bellowed.  And  Bulmer  at  last  succeeded 
in  getting  Wartle  to  promise  fifteen  shillings  for  a 

64 


cq) 


* RUNNING  IN  BLANK  *8 

page  advertisement.  And  the  success  of  the  party 
mounted  up  and  up,  for  the  cleric  sang  a  song  full  of 
innocent  merriment,  of  which  the  chorus  was: 

A,  B,  C,  D, 

Sing  it  all  with  me! 
A,  B;  C,  D, 
All  along  with  me! 

"What  we  want,"  thought  Bulmer,  "is  something 
to  ginger  it  up;  something  nippy.  Nippy  notes, 
that's  what  we  want;  nippy  notes."  He  glared  at 
Mr.  Wartle,  for  the  undertaker  did  not  conceal  his 
animosity.  Nippy  notes!  He'd  nip  him  when  he'd 
got  that  fifteen  shillings  out  of  him. 


Chapter  II 
The  Animosity  of  Mr.  Wartle 

ON  a  December  afternoon  Bulmer  found  Hen- 
rietta in  tears.  His  sister  sat  by  the  window, 
propping  up  on  her  left  hand  her  rather  worn  profile, 
while  her  right  arm  hung  helplessly  by  her  side,  ex- 
cept that  from  time  to  time  she  raised  her  hand  to 
dab  at  her  eyes  or  blow  her  nose  in  a  handkerchief 
rolled  into  a  gray  ball.  Richard  had  inherited  the 
dining-room  rights  from  his  father,  and  now,  on 
Sunday  afternoons,  he  used  to  sit  there  to  prepare 
the  Journal.  So,  until  he  saw  that  she  was  crying, 
he  resented  his  sister's  presence.  But  a  loud  sniff 
made  him  look  up,  and  he  realized,  with  a  little  dis- 
turbance, her  pathetic  attitude.  She  was  staring 
into  vacancy,  and  light  snow  was  falling.  Snow  was, 
in  a  sense,  appropriate.  Bulmer  got  up  and  put  his 
arm  round  her,  saying: 

"What's  the  matter,  old  girl?"  Upon  which 
Henrietta  pillowed  her  head  upon  his  breast,  and 
wept  much  louder. 

" There,  there,"  he  said,  consolingly,  patting  her 
head  in  the  clumsy  way  that  men  have  with  women 
whom  they  do  not  usually  caress.  "It'll  be  all 
right,"  he  added,  without  conviction.  "What's  the 
matter?" 


°$         THE  ANIMOSITY  OF  MR.  WARTLE         *S? 

Henrietta  did  not  reply,  but  turned  a  few  leaves  of 
the  open  album.  At  last  she  sobbed,  "I'm  very 
unhappy." 

He  bent  down  to  kiss  her  hot,  humid  cheek.  He 
did  not  yet  know  what  to  do,  did  not  understand 
that  he  should  hold  her  to  him,  say  nothing,  ask 
nothing,  let  her  cry,  wait  until  this  relieved  her, 
giving  her,  meanwhile,  the  comfort  of  his  contact. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  said.  "What's  hap- 
pened?   Why  are  you  unhappy?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Henrietta,  in  a  muffled  voice.  As 
Bulmer  did  not  question  her  she  must  have  uncon- 
sciously feared  that  he  would  not  do  so,  for  her  tears 
began  to  flow  faster,  and  in  one  long  sentence  with- 
out stops  she  told  him  the  story. 

"Cocking!"  said  Bulmer.    "Well,  I'm  blowed!" 

"Oh,  I  did  love  him  so,"  said  Henrietta.  Bulmer 
thought  of  Mr.  Verden,  but  said  nothing.  He  thought 
her  feeble,  but  he  was  genuinely  sorry  for  her,  and  so 
again  fell  to  kissing  her  and  pressing  her  hand. 

"I  thought  he  had  such  a  kind  heart,"  said  Hen- 
rietta. "Look  at  the  nice  thing  he  wrote  in  my 
album."     She  read  aloud: 

"The  kettle  sings  cheerily  from  the  hearth; 
Darby  helps  Joan  with  her  homely  task. 
And  Joan  chats  to  Darby  of  the  days  that  are  past, 
Till  their  dear  old  hearts  beat  hard  and  fast 
As  they  did  in  the  long  ago.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  I  can't  bear  it,"  moaned  Henrietta,  and  wept 
again. 

Bulmer  was  rather  embarrassed.  He  was  too 
young,  however  well-meaning,  to  know  exactly  what 

67 


*g  CALIBAN  °% 


to  do  with  a  tearful  female.  At  last  an  idea  struck 
him.  He  freed  himself,  went  up-stairs,  and  on  re- 
turning slipped  into  Henrietta's  nerveless  hand  a 
very  sticky  bag  of  cocoanut  bar,  the  cocoanut  bar 
that  he  still  loved  almost  as  much  as  cigarettes. 
Henrietta  smiled,  freed  the  bar  from  most  of  the 
paper,  and  gently  began  to  nibble  it,  leaving  pink 
marks  upon  the  pages  which  she  listlessly  turned,  as 
in  gentler  melancholy  she  lived  again  in  the  long 
ago. 

"Hettie's  a  silly  fool,"  said  Eleanor,  when  Richard 
asked  her  to  be  nice  to  her  sister  for  a  day  or  two. 
" Silly  sheep!  mooning  about  like  that." 

"She  was  in  love  with  him,"  said  Bulmer,  solemnly. 
A  misty  desire  for  love  was  very  strong  in  him. 
Annie  and  her  successors  had  often  brought  him  to 
a  state  when  he  could  glimpse  love,  like  a  tenuous 
nymph,  through  a  ghostly  thicket.  Yet,  always, 
when  he  sought  to  grasp  the  nymph  he  found  only 
the  hardness  of  soft  flesh. 

"You're  as  big  an  idiot  as  she  is,"  said  Eleanor. 
"Don't  worry  about  her.  She  likes  being  miser- 
able." Bulmer  did  not  trouble  about  Henrietta  as 
much  as  he  would  have  wanted  to,  beyond  taking 
her  to  Drury  Lane,  and  once  to  the  Geological 
Museum  in  Jermyn  Street.  This  latter  was  not  a 
success,  because  they  found  a  couple  kissing  on  the 
other  side  of  a  case  containing  shales  and  allied 
schistous  rocks;  this  recalled  to  Henrietta  the  lost 
long  ago.  Besides,  he  had  troubles  of  his  own,  for 
Mrs.  Bulmer  was  beginning  a  solid  attack  on  the 
Journal  She  realized  that  she  could  not  forbid  a 
young  man  of  twenty-two  to  run  a  magazine  in  his 

68 


°g        THE  ANIMOSITY  OF  MR.  WARTLE         « 


spare  time,  but  she  had  a  painful  power  of  allusion. 
''Going  for  a  walk  to-night,  Dick?  No?  Oh,  of 
course,  the  Journal.  Such  a  pity!  such  a  nice  even- 
ing!" Or:  "Did  you  think  that  was  quite  a  nice 
story  by  Mrs.  Tirril?  I  thought  it  rather  a  pity, 
that  reference  to  the  lady  in  satin,  but  of  course  one 
must  have  something  for  everybody  in  a  magazine. 
I  think  it's  a  pity,  but  of  course  you  know  best." 
Or,  again:  "What  a  pity  you  can't  work  up  a  little 
bookkeeping,  Dick.  I'm  sure  it  would  be  useful. 
But,  of  course,  there's  the  Journal;  I  know  you 
haven't  got  time."  It  was  indirect,  and  therefore 
it  was  maddening.  Also,  as  time  went  on,  Mrs.  Bul- 
mer  developed  a  side-attack  which  consisted  in  "see- 
ing his  father  coming  out." 

One  day,  when  Mrs.  Bulmer  found  two  copies  of 
the  Journal  ready  for  post  in  the  hall,  and  franked 
with  stamps  for  which  Richard  had  paid,  she  said: 
"I  always  thought  that  stamps  were  office  expenses, 
but  of  course  you  don't  care,  Dick.  Twopence  here, 
twopence  there,  it  all  mounts  up.  But  of  course 
you  don't  mind;  it's  your  father  coming  out." 

Bulmer  swore  silently  and  said:  "I  don5t  know 
why  you're  always  talking  of  my  father  like  that. 
You  used  to  stick  up  for  him  when  he  was  alive." 

"It's  different  now,"  said  Mrs.  Bulmer.  "When 
your  poor  father  was  alive  I  had  to  see  to  it  that  his 
children  respected  him." 

Upon  which  Bulmer,  defeated,  left  the  room.  He 
was  not  metaphysical  enough  to  wonder  why  the 
respect  that  makes  calamity  of  so  long  a  life  has  no 
practical  value  when  life  departs.  Besides,  he  was 
really  busy.    Already  he  was  selling  about  a  hundred 

69 


**?  CALIBAN ]8? 

and  twenty  copies  a  month,  and  if  it  had  not  been 
for  Mr.  Wartle  he  would  have  felt  very  self-satisfied. 
Only,  Mr.  Wartle  was  an  agnostic,  and  when  Buhner 
began  to  make  arrangements  with  the  local  churches 
to  circulate  the  magazine  at  their  meetings,  giving 
them  a  commission  on  the  sale,  Mr.  Wartle  thought 
it  necessary  to  make  remarks. 

"I  think,"  said  Mr.  Wartle,  composing  his  cheer- 
ful countenance  to  the  required  gloom,  "  that  we  have 
a  duty  in  these  things.  We  should  set  our  faces 
against  bigotry  and  superstition.  We  ought  to  be 
a  Rational  Influence." 

Bulmer  murmured  something  about  printers'  bills 
not  being  paid  out  of  Rational  Influence,  but  Mr. 
Wartle  rolled  on  disapprovingly. 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  to  say  that  I  fear  the  Journal 
is  conducted  on  the  wrong  lines." 

"But,  hang  it  all,"  said  Bulmer,  "we're  not  taking 
sides.  We  aren't  only  selling  it  at  the  parish  meet- 
ings; I've  got  hold  of  the  Catholics,  and  of  the  Con- 
gregationalists,  and  the  Baptists,  and  I'm  negotiating 
with  the  Presbyterians.    But  they  want  too  much." 

"I  am  sorry  I  must  express  my  disapproval.  I 
should  not  object  if  the  paper  were  merely  sold  to 
these  benighted  people,  but  you  get  nothing  for 
nothing.  I  see  you  have  arranged  addresses  by  the 
various  ministers." 

"Well,  how  do  you  think  I'm  going  to  get  their 
flocks  to  buy  the  magazine  if  I  don't  report  their 
pastors?  "  said  Bulmer. 

"Clergymen  are  not  a  Good  Influence,"  said  Mr. 
Wartle.  "They  introduce  superstition  into  their 
lectures." 

70 


£         THE  ANIMOSITY  OF  MR.  WARTLE         TB 

"But,  good  Heavens!"  said  Buhner,  "the  vicar  is 
going  to  speak  on  the  Dutch  school  of  painting. 
Can't  do  any  harm  with  that." 

"You  never  know,"  said  Mr.  Wartle,  and  enter- 
tained Buhner  with  dark  stories  of  Jesuit  propaganda 
and  of  dead  babies  buried  in  convent  gardens. 

"Oh,  go  and  boil  yourself,"  said  Bulmer. 

Mr.  Wartle  retired  with  dignity,  but  his  propa- 
ganda against  Buhner  grew  continuous  and  stealthy. 
Miss  Murrow  became  a  Wartleite  after  a  grand  com- 
mittee where  Bulmer  refused  to  crowd  out  the  Pres- 
byterian minister  and  to  substitute  an  article  by  Mr. 
Wartle  on  "Great  Thoughts  and  Great  Thinkers." 

"We've  had  all  that  stuff  before,"  said  Bulmer. 

"You  can  never  have  too  much,"  retorted  Mr. 
Wartle. 

"We  want  some  Bernard  Shaw,"  cried  Miss 
Murrow. 

"Never  heard  of  him,"  said  Bulmer. 

"You  will,"  replied  Miss  Murrow. 

"Well,  until  I  do,"  said  Bulmer,  "I'll  go  on  selling 
fifty  copies  a  month  to  the  Presbyterians,  please." 

Mrs.  Tirril  intervened  to  champion  Roman  Cathol- 
icism which,  she  said,  was  so  magnificent.  That 
made  matters  worse.  As  for  Mr.  Brill,  he  became  a 
nominal  Wartleite,  but  secretly  contributed  verse 
under  a  pseudonym. 

At  bottom,  Bulmer  did  not  worry  much.  The 
magazine  was  doing  well.  It  was  over  the  five  hun- 
dred, and  when,  a  few  weeks  later,  he  captured  the 
Radical  Club,  the  Conservatve  Club,  and  the  local 
temperance  society,  his  circulation  began  to  hover 

round  the  thousand. 
6  71 


°g  CALIBAN  *8 

Indeed,  the  Journal  was  occupying  him  more  and 
more;  it  filled  a  semi-idle  year  at  the  office.  He  was 
not  unhappy  at  Blakeney,  Sons  &  Co.,  except  that 
he  made  few  friends.  He  found  people  slow.  Mr. 
Gorgie,  the  head  clerk,  was  a  great  nuisance.  For 
Mr.  Gorgie,  who  wore  sorrowful  white  whiskers, 
worshiped  a  private  deity:  "The  God  That  Gets 
Things  Done  in  a  Regular  Fashion."  Almost  every 
day  he  offered  up  Bulmer  on  the  altar  of  this  god  as 
a  perpetually  smoking  holocaust.  Bulmer  did  not 
cross  his  t's,  and  it  was  maddening  to  see  Mr. 
Gorgie  carefully  read  one  of  his  statements,  crossing 
every  one  of  the  t's.  Also,  he  wanted  the  sign  £ 
placed  exactly  between  the  lines  of  the  paper.  And 
on  another  occasion: 

" Bulmer, "  he  said,  "I  do  wish  that  you  would 
draw  the  final  double  line  under  the  total  in  such  a 
way  that  one  black  line  comes  above  the  blue  line 
of  the  paper  and  the  other  one  below.  It  looks 
better." 

The  others,  according  to  their  age  and  position, 
modeled  themselves  on  Mr.  Gorgie,  and  if  it  had 
not  been  for  his  friend,  Alf  Hawes,  Bulmer  would 
have,  so  he  told  him,  bent  the  ledger  on  the  old 
beast's  head,  and  gone  for  a  soldier.  But  Alf  Hawes 
was  a  great  comfort.  He  was  a  rakish  young  man, 
some  years  older  than  Bulmer,  who  wore  check 
trousers  and  fancy  ties;  he  was  no  end  of  a  masher, 
and  several  times  a  week  came  in  with  subtly  lurid 
stories  of  his  doings  up  west.  Sometimes  Bulmer 
accompanied  him  on  his  modish  buccaneering,  and 
then  they  played  billiards  in  a  saloon  near  Seven 
Dials,  or  they  found  friends  and  joined  arms,  pro- 

1  72 


<TQ> 


^         THE  ANIMOSITY  OF  MR.  WARTLE         « 

ceeding  up  Coventry  Street,  loudly  singing.  Once, 
somebody  turned  up  with  a  concertina,  and  they 
caused  a  disturbance  in  Leicester  Square.  Or  they 
ended  up  at  the  Monico,  where  Hawes  drank  whisky 
and  water,  throwing  cigarette  ash  over  his  shoulder, 
while  Bulmer  ate  tricolored  Neapolitan  ices,  which 
he  loved. 

As  for  the  office,  as  Hawes  put  it,  it  was  no  good 
for  this  child.  And  only  show  him  a  better  job,  he'd 
be  on  it  like  a  bird.  He  was  sympathetic  about  the 
Journal,  and  even  sent  in  a  contribution  entitled, 
"  Thick  Nights  in  Town."  After  some  meditation 
Bulmer  decided  not  to  print  it.  Also,  Hawes  per- 
suaded him  to  introduce  him  to  Mrs.  Tirril,  and,  as 
this  friendship  increased,  Hawes  tilted  his  hat  more 
sideways,  and  hinted  vaguely  that  women  who  were 
said  to  have  a  past  might  very  well  have  a  present, 
too. 

Fundamentally,  though,  he  agreed  with  Bulmer 
that  something  was  lacking  in  the  Journal,  and 
together  they  anatyzed  an  early  copy  of  Answers. 
The  results  of  this  consideration  produced  some 
trouble  with  Mr.  Wartle,  for  Hawes  expounded 
them  to  him  in  Mrs.  Tirril's  drawing-room,  where, 
one  evening,  they  were  sitting  each  other  out.  Mrs. 
Tirril,  very  flattered,  fanned  herself,  and  smiled  at 
them  through  the  ostrich  feathers.  Hawes  pro- 
claimed Buhner's  view  that  the  Journal  wanted  more 
snap. 

"I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing/'  cried  Mr.  Wartle. 
"Snap!  indeed.     Did  Emerson  have  snap?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Hawes. 

"Did  Tennyson  have  snap?"  Mr.  Wartle  rolled 

73 


°g  CALIBAN  ^ 

on.  "Did  Walter  Scott  have  snap?  Mrs.  Tirril,  I 
put  it  to  you;  shall  we  leave  the  Journal  of  what 
was  once  a  society  intended  to  lead  to  better  things 
in  the  hands  of  people  who  will  vulgarize  it  to  the 
level  of  Pick  Me  Up?" 

"I'm  sure  there's  a  great  deal  in  what  you  say," 
said  Mrs.  Tirril,  and  smiled  at  him  through  her  fan. 
Then  she  looked  sideways  at  Hawes  and  smiled  as  if 
to  say  that  reward  would  not  fail  his  patience  if  he 
were  patient  enough. 


Chapter  III 
Zip 

THE  insertion  of  snappiness  into  a  journal  where, 
until  then,  dignity  had  given  no  chance  to  im- 
pudence considerably  increased  the  animosity  of 
Mr.  Wartle.  Bulmer,  who  was  not  very  susceptible 
to  implied  censure,  realized  it  rather  late,  when  Mr. 
Wartle  had  been  going  round  the  society  with  solemn 
eyes  and  drooping  jaw,  thus  elaborately  maintaining 
sorrow  upon  his  naturally  jovial  features.  Mr.  Wartle 
was  .  .  .  lowering.  And  as  his  anger  rose  he  manu- 
factured visions  of  himself  as  a  tiger  about  to  spring, 
or  as  a  bull  about  to  bay  (Was  it  bulls  that  bayed? 
Oh,  never  mind).  While  Bulmer  sought  snappiness 
Mr.  Wartle  gave  him  his  first  political  lesson — that 
is  to  say,  while  Bulmer  worked  Mr.  Wartle  lobbied. 
The  undertaker  caught  the  society  in  detail.  He 
deplored  to  Miss  Murrow  that  her  excellent  article 
on  "William  Morris  and  the  Craft  Spirit"  had  been 
cut;  he  exhibited  his  devotion  to  the  new  social 
order  which  Miss  Murrow  represented,  said  a  few 
words  about  editors  who  were  born  vulgarians,  and 
left  Miss  Murrow  laboring  under  a  sense  of  heavy 
wrong  at  the  hands  of  Bulmer.  Mr.  Brill  proved 
quite  easy,  for  the  young  poet  was  afraid  of  Mr. 
Wartle,   because  the  undertaker  reminded  him  of 

his  manager  at  the  bank,  and  that  sort  of  man  awed 

75 


*$  CALIBAN  "8 


him.  He  always  vaguely  felt  that  Mr.  Wartle  might 
sack  him.  So  he  scratched  his  pimples  and  said 
yes  to  everything. 

The  conspirator  found  Mrs.  Tirril  more  difficult, 
for  the  widow  had  a  regretable  taste  for  snappiness. 
She  liked  To-day,  and  found  Mr.  Jerome  K.  Jerome 
very  amusing.  She  adored  Pick  Me  Up,  and  was 
always  urging  Bulmer  to  emulate  the  raciness  of 
Modern  Society.  So,  while  Mr.  Wartle  boomed  in 
whispers  about  the  duty  of  the  society  to  raise  the 
intellectual  tone  of  mankind,  she  only  smiled  and 
used  her  fine  blue  eyes  to  break  the  line  of  his  argu- 
ment. When  he  had  done  she  said:  "Dear  Mr. 
Wartle,  aren't  you  .  .  .  well,  a  teeny  wee  bit  old- 
fashioned?  This  is  1893,  you  know.  We  must  be 
modern. " 

"Vulgarity/'  said  Mr.  Wartle,  "is  unfortunately 
modern.  But  do  we  want  that  sort  of  modernity  in 
the  Journal?" 

They  argued  for  a  long  time,  and  it  was  only  by 
a  fluke  that  Mr.  Wartle  won.  He  referred  to  a  con- 
tribution by  Alf  Hawes,  and  said  something  about 
common  young  men  whose  life  would  not  bear  in- 
spection. Delicately  pressed,  and  quite  unconscious 
of  pressure,  Mr.  Wartle  then  revealed  that  Alf 
Hawes  had  a  little  affair  with  the  girl  in  the  fish-shop 
near  Edgware  Road  Station.  Mrs.  Tirril  became 
meditative,  and  by  degrees  grew  filled  with  a  sense 
of  intolerable  outrage;  night  after  night  she  had  lis- 
tened to  Hawes  playing  the  flute!  For  this!  Then 
her  thoughts  passed  to  Bulmer;  he  never  came  to 
see  her.  Perhaps  he  did  not  play  the  flute.  But, 
for  sure,  a  young  man  might  come  for  other  reasons. 

76 


<x±) 


€,  ZIP  « 

Mr.  Wartle  rolled  on,  and  Mrs.  Tirril  brooded  over 
Hawes,  who  was  faithless,  and  Bulmer,  who  was  not 
even  that.  So  Mrs.  Tirril  became  a  Wartleite. 
One  evening  in  the  next  week,  when  Bulmer  was 
summoned  by  the  committee  to  show  cause  why- 
he  should  not  remove  the  snappiness,  everybody 
talked  enormously  except  Buhner,  who  looked 
bored,  and  Brill,  who  scratched.  Notably,  there 
was  a  new  member,  an  elder  of  a  local  church,  who 
had  never  attended  a  committee  meeting  before,  and 
so  had  many  lines  of  policy  to  lay  down.  Richard 
sat  and  listened  to  the  recital  of  his  sins.  Miss  Mur- 
row  thought  that  the  Journal  had  gone  down  con- 
siderably. Considerably.  When  she  had  first  known 
it  it  was  devoted  to  the  cause  of  progress  and  modern 
thought.  It  printed  only  articles  on  Socialism  and 
De  Morgan  tiles,  and  it  had  interesting  correspond- 
ences on  the  decay  of  belief.  Now!  Now  it  was 
becoming  the  medium  of  catchpenny  vulgarity. 
The  accounts  of  the  society's  lectures  were  scandal- 
ously meager.  Great  public  questions,  such  as  the 
municipalization  of  milk  and  the  transportation  of 
fish,  were  entirely  ignored.  Moreover,  there  were 
features  in  the  magazine  which  she  objected  to.  For 
instance  .  .  .  Miss  Murrow  stopped  suddenly,  for  she 
was  about  to  make  some  remarks  about  the  mem- 
ories of  Mrs.  Tirril's  childhood,  to  say  nothing  of 
her  girlhood,  when  she  remembered  that  Mrs.  Tirril 
was  Sound.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  there  were  features  which 
were  obviously  undesirable. 

She  went  on  for  a  long  time.  Bulmer  considered 
the  little  spinster  and  thought  that,  in  spite  of  the 

spectacles  which  virilized  her,  she  did  not  look  at 

77 


■8  CALIBAN j£ 

all  like  Vesta  Tilley  as  the  Piccadilly  Johnnie  with 
a  glass  eye.  Caring  not  at  all  what  Miss  Murrow 
thought,  he  was  able  to  analyze  her  with  some 
sagacity.  As  the  little  spinster  grew  shriller  and 
shriller,  Bulmer  realized  her  (in  other  words)  as  one 
of  those  people  who  are  restricted  within  their 
emancipations.  While  his  sisters  went  round  and 
round,  scrubbing  the  stairs,  or  giving  piano  lessons, 
like  a  couple  of  squirrels  in  a  cage,  Miss  Murrow 
had  escaped  from  the  home  cage  to  manufacture 
another  one  with  many  bars.  One  bar  was  called 
Modern  Thought,  another  Progress,  another  De- 
mocracy, another  Freedom  (but  she  didn't  mean  it), 
and  in  this  highly  intellectualized  cage  Miss  Murrow 
went  round  and  round,  chasing  her  tail  with  desper- 
ate intentness  and  without  the  slightest  chance  of 
ever  catching  it. 

"That  sorb,"  thought  Bulmer,  "doesn't  matter." 
So  he  ruled  her  out  and  listened  to  Mr.  Wartle,  who 
was  now  sorrowfully  booming  in  his  accustomed  style. 

"What  I  particularly  object  to,"  said  Mr.  Wartle, 
"is  the  tone,  Mr.  Bulmer.  For  instance,  that  head- 
line— I  hardly  like  to  repeat  it  before  ladies." 

"I  don't  mind  repeating  it,"  said  Bulmer.  "What's 
the  matter  with  it?  'Join  Us!  We're  a  Live  Lot/ 
Well,  aren't  we  a  live  lot?" 

"That  is  not  the  question,"  said  Mr.  Wartle. 

"Oh  yes,  it  is.  We  are  a  live  lot.  Miss  Murrow, 
aren't  we  a  live  lot?" 

"Please  address  your  remarks  to  Mr.  Wartle," 
said  Miss  Murrow. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wartle's  business  influences  him,"  said 
Bulmer.     "He's  a  dead  lot." 

78 


«  ZIP  °£ 

Mr.  Wartle  smote  the  little  bamboo  table  and 
bellowed  something  confused  about  personalities, 
but  he  was  interrupted  by  Mrs.  Tirril,  who  asked 
him  where  he  had  learned  to  swear  before  ladies. 
So  Mr.  Wartle  retired  in  confusion,  and  henceforth 
hated  Buhner  the  more,  because  Bulmer  had  caused 
him  to  break  the  commandment  "Thou  shalt  be 
refined.' '  Yet  Mrs.  Tirril  did  not  prove  a  Bulmerite. 
Her  point  was  that  the  magazine  was  too  heavy; 
it  wasn't  like  Pick  Me  Up,  but  more  like  Drop  Me 
Quick. 

When  they  had  done  there  was  a  long  silence. 
Everybody  expected  Bulmer  to  reply,  and  every- 
body wanted  him  to,  for  the  committee  did  not  wish 
him  to  resign;  if  he  did,  somebody  else  would  have 
the  bother  of  running  the  magazine  for  nothing. 
They  were  prepared,  if  he  did  try  to  resign,  to  soothe 
him  and  flatter  him.  But  Bulmer  said  nothing;  he 
merely  stared  at  them  with  as  much  curiosity  as  he 
did  at  the  beetles  and  butterflies  in  the  taxidermist's 
case  in  Kilburn  High  Road.  At  last  the  elder  could 
bear  it  no  more  and  said  over  again  everything 
the  others  had  said.  Then  there  was  another  silence, 
and  Miss  Murrow  asked  Bulmer  if  he  had  nothing 
to  say. 

After  a  moment  Bulmer  got  up  and  said:  " Ladies 
and  gentlemen,  I  haven't  anything  much  to  say, 
except  that  all  this  is  twaddle.  I  am  the  editor  of 
this  magazine,  and  I  am  going  to  edit  it.  Also,  I 
don't  think  much  of  it.  It  wants  something  more. 
It  wants  .  .  .  zip." 

"Zip!"  said  Mr.  Wartle,  feebly. 

"Zip,"  said  Bulmer,  solemnly.    "Ladies  and  gen- 

79 


*8?  CALIBAN  *8 

tlemen  of  the  committee,  I  wish  you  .  .  .  plenty  of 
zip/'     And,  picking  up  his  hat,  he  walked  out. 

The  committee  sat  for  a  little  while  after  Buhner's 
departure. 

"What  do  you  think  he's  going  to  do?"  asked 
Miss  Murrow. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Wartle, 
gloomily. 

"What  do  you  think  he  means  by  zip?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Wartle.  "Let's  look 
it  up  in  the  dictionary." 

They  could  not  find  it  in  the  dictionary,  and  so, 
by  being  unknown,  zip  acquired  greater  terrors. 
Except  for  Mrs.  Tirril.  There  was  about  the  word 
something  pleasing,  for  she  was  sensitive  to  onoma- 
topoeia. 

Meanwhile  Bulmer  walked  home,  not  only  send- 
ing the  committee  to  hell,  but  a  growing  prey  to 
profound  realizations.  For  the  first  time,  he  saw 
himself  in  the  world  by  seeing  himself  inside  a  com- 
mittee. He  realized  clearly  the  abnormality  of  people 
on  committees.  It  struck  him  that  these  people  had 
formed  the  committee  for  five  years,  and  that  nobody 
ever  stood  against  them.  Therefore  nobody  else 
wanted  to  be  on  the  committee.  Therefore  com- 
mittees were  always  minorities.  Therefore — and 
here  he  was  flooded  with  a  conviction  denied  by 
Ibsen — the  majority  is  always  right.  A  hot  feeling 
of  enthusiasm  rose  in  Bulmer  as  he  thought  of  the 
magazine,  the  majority,  stormy,  many-headed,  in- 
articulate, resplendent,  the  majority,  beautiful  and 
glorious,  hundreds  of  them,  millions  of  them,  millions 
of  people  all  alike,  who'd  think  what  they  were  told, 

80 


*8?  ZIP  <% 

and  buy  what  they  were  told,  and  roll  over  the  silly 
little  minority  like  an  elephant  wallowing  on  a  toad. 
He  walked  along  Carlton  Vale,  swinging  his  arms 
and  mouthing  joyful  speeches.  His  soul  was  full 
of  idolatry.  His  heart  felt  all  soft  and  open  as  he 
embraced  the  full  sweetness  of  that  majority  which 
was  always  right,  of  that  majority  which  could  spring 
into  life  as  the  Sleeping  Beauty  under  the  kiss  of 
Prince  Charming,  if  only  one  gave  it  a  little  zip. 

Then  Bulmer  ceased  to  meditate,  for  he  never 
meditated  long,  and,  running  up  to  his  bedroom, 
prepared  the  head-line  for  the  new  issue.  The  first 
line  in  the  usual  lettering  ran : 

JOURNAL  OF  THE  N.  W.  LONDON  LITERARY 
AND  DEBATING  SOCIETY 

Below  this  came,  in  colossai  lettering: 

WE    WANT    MORE    ZIP 

Then,  content  with  his  work,  he  went  to  bed,  and 
next  day  at  Thomas's  Chop  House  had  a  long  con- 
ference with  Hawes.  Results  were  immediate.  The 
Journal  was  given  zip.  As  the  members  were 
thought  too  stupid,  half  the  next  issue  was  written 
by  Bulmer  and  Hawes.  Until  then  the  opening 
notes  had  appeared  under  the  title,  "  Thoughts  of 
the  Day. ' '  These  were  converted  into, ' '  Our  Naughty 
Notes,"  and  though  they  had  to  be  padded  out  with 
the  usual  announcements  of  local  lectures  and  books 
of  the  month,  they  were  made  palatable  by  special 

paragraphs.     These  gave  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  for 

81 


«  CALIBAN  "g 

Buhner's  method  was  to  look  up  the  encyclopedia 
and  see  whether  anybody  had  ever  borne  the  names 
of  his  victims.  Mr.  Wartle  apparently  had  no 
ancestors,  and  so  Hawes  had  to  touch  him  up  in  a 
dialogue  where  he  figured  persistently  as  Rosa  Dartle 
and  was  questioned  on  this  point:  " Would  Higher 
Education  Increase  the  Length  of  Human  Life?  If 
so,  would  he  still  press  for  higher  education?"  Oc- 
casionally the  unfortunate  Rosa  Dartle  didn't  know 
and  was  made  to  plead  that  she  was  so  volatile. 

Mrs.  Tirril  was  more  easily  managed,  because 
Father  Tyrrell  had  just  become  known,  and  so  a 
strange  compound  of  Orientalism  and  Jesuitical  prac- 
tice was  fastened  upon  the  widow.  As  for  Miss 
Murrow,  they  extracted  some  verses  from  Brill,  who 
became  a  Bulmerite  when  required.  As  they  were 
printed  to  rhyme  with  such  words  as  " furrow"  and 
"burrow,"  the  verses  went  very  well.  And,  to  make 
the  paper  more  emphatic,  Bulmer  printed  at  the 
bottom  of  every  page: 

We  Want  Moke  Zip 

The  convulsions  within  the  society  did  not  reach 
Bulmer.  At  bottom,  the  society  was  delighted,  for 
it  hated  its  committee,  and  yet  never  stood  against 
it,  as  they  did  not  want  to  do  any  work.  So  they 
enjoyed  seeing  the  committee  touched  up.  Also, 
while  deploring  the  tone,  Mrs.  Tirril  was  much 
amused  by  the  references  to  Mr.  Wartle  and  Miss 
Murrow.  They,  too,  liked  her  immolation.  But 
when,  in  the  next  issue,  a  jokes  column  was  con- 
tributed by  Hawes,  and  a  horrid  riddle  reading, 

82 


*8  ZIP  *% 

"When  is  a  door  not  a  door?"  "When  it's  an 
egress/7  was  printed  as  a  tail-piece  to  Professor 
Stanton's  article,  "Fragments  from  Merrick/'  the 
committee  began  to  boil.  At  last  Mr.  Wartle's 
paper  on  "Mens  sana  in  corpore  sano"  was  returned 
with  a  slip,  reading : 

JOURNAL  OF  THE  N.  W.  LONDON  LITERARY 
AND  DEBATING  SOCIETY 

We  Want  More  Zip 

(Declined  with  Thanks) 

A  general  meeting  of  the  society  was  called  to  take 
place  in  Mrs.  Tirril's  drawing-room. 

Buhner,  sitting  with  Hawes,  listened  to  the  de- 
nunciations of  his  conduct,  and  was  unabashed, 
though  all  eyes  were  turned  on  him  when  Mr.  Wartle 
put  the  motion  that  he  be  asked  to  resign. 

"Before  putting  this  action,"  said  the  elder,  who 
was  in  the  chair,  "I  think  you  will  wish  to  hear  Mr. 
Buhner  on  his  defense." 

The  young  man  got  up  quite  readily,  smiled  at  the 
assembly,  and  said: 

"When  I  took  over  this  magazine  about  one  in 
ten  of  you  read  it,  and  that  one  wouldn't  have 
bought  it  if  it  hadn't  been  thrown  in  with  the  annual 
subscription.     Do  you  read  it  now?" 
Yes,"  said  one  or  two  voices. 
I  think  it's  disgraceful,"  said  somebody  else. 
Don't   interrupt,"    said   Buhner,    quite   uncon- 
scious that  he  had  invited  them  to  speak.     "For  I 

83 


ti 


a 


1?  CALIBAN  "8 

have  very  little  to  say.  I  say  that  the  Journal  wants 
zip.  It's  got  it.  If  you  like  the  magazine  as  I  have 
made  it,  you'll  vote  against  Rosa  Dartle"  (a  few 
giggles);  "if  you  don't  like  the  magazine  you'll  vote 
against  me.     Now  put  your  motion." 

The  elder  deplored  that  personalities  should  be 
introduced.  This  was  a  question  of  policy,  not  of 
persons. 

"Oh  yes,  it  is,"  cried  Bulmer,  jumping  up  again. 
"Everything  in  this  world's  a  question  of  persons. 
People  think  they  vote  for  policy;  they  don't.  They 
vote  for  men.  People  don't  vote  for  Liberal,  they 
vote  for  Rosebery.  They  don't  vote  Unionist,  they 
vote  for  Salisbury.  And  so,  to-night,  you've  got  to 
vote  for  me  or  Rosa1  Dartle.  Be  kind  to  her,  she's 
so  volatile." 

Half  the  meeting  laughed,  and  for  a  long  time  the 
question  could  not  be  put  because  various  young  men 
wanted  to  deliver  humorous  speeches,  while  serious 
young  women  were  disgusted  by  all  this  vulgarity. 
Also,  the  elder  had  many  things  to  say  which  had 
been  said  before.  When  at  last  the  question  was 
put,  and  Mr.  Wartle's  motion  declared  carried  on 
a  show  of  hands,  the  majority  was  so  small  that  the 
meeting  immediately  broke  up  into  four  or  five 
groups,  for  the  purpose  of  furious  argument,  while 
the  elder  vainly  tolled  the  dinner-bell.  It  was  Bul- 
mer pulled  the  meeting  together  by  jumping  on  a 
chair  and  bawling: 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I've  got  the  sack  because 
I  want  to  put  zip  into  this  magazine.  Well,  I've 
done  with  it,  but  I've  not  done  with  myself.  I  say 
the  world  wants  zip,  and  the  world  shall  have  it." 

84 


%  ZIP  *g 

A  few  minutes  later  Bulmer  and  Hawes  walked 
down  Maida  Vale.  It  was  a  bright,  moonlit  night, 
against  which  houses  and  trees  stood  out  like  lace. 
A  soft  calm  rose.  But  Bulmer  strode  on,  teeth 
clenched,  and  Hawes,  thinking  he  was  angry,  said 
nothing.  When  they  reached  the  corner  of  Carlton 
Vale  and  were  about  to  say  good  night  Hawes  said : 

"Dick,  what's  zip?" 

Bulmer  stared  at  him.  "Zip?  I  don't  know.  But 
the  public  '11  want  to  know." 

"What  do  you  mean,  the  public?" 

Bulmer  did  not  look  at  him.  With  broad  eyes  he 
stared  down  Maida  Vale,  where  the  gas-lamps 
trembled  like  fireflies,  and  up  which  echoed  the  weary 
trot  of  the  bus  horses,  broken  by  the  rapid  clip- 
trop-trop  of  hansoms  returning  from  the  theaters. 
The  sound  of  traffic  filled  him  with  a  delicious  sense 
of  life.  People!  Lots  of  people!  Horses,  and 
machines,  and  facts,  and  things.  All  round  him 
millions  of  people  and  millions  of  houses.  It  was 
like  being  a  little  animal  picked  up  by  a  large, 
friendly  hand.  He  filled  his  lungs  with  the  warm 
air.  It  was  as  if  he  embraced  the  City;  London, 
that  lay  about  him  good-humored  and  negligent, 
with  her  long,  slow  limbs,  and  her  puerile  indolence. 

"Alf,"  he  whispered,  "I  got  an  idea.  Why  drop 
it?" 

"How  do  you  mean,  why  drop  it?  You've  got 
the  push,  haven't  you?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  all  those  silly  sheep.  I  mean 
this  zip  idea.  Why  drop  it?  Why  don't  we  start 
a  magazine  and  call  it  Zip?" 

The  two  young  men  looked  at  each  other  seriously. 

85 


*g  CALIBAN  °£ 

Through  the  practical  mind  of  Hawes  ran  the  idea 
that  the  first  subscribers  would  probably  be  some  of 
the  silly  sheep.  That  would  give  'em  a  start,  but 
Bulmer  was  carried  away  by  an  ungovernable  ex- 
citement; for  the  first  time  he  was  faced  with  the 
idea  that  perhaps  he  might  possess  a  magazine, 
something  that  would  be  his,  that  would  embody 
him.  He  was  thrilled  by  a  sudden  inrush  of  emo- 
tion, as  if  there  were  revealed  to  him  a  delight  which 
he  had  suspected,  yet  never  known.  He  was  as  a 
maiden  on  her  bridal  journey,  all  filled  with  this 
revelation.  And  if  he  had  had  a  mystic  revelation 
he  might  have  seen  in  the  blue-black  sky  that  over- 
hung Maida  Vale  the  magic  word  "Zip,"  painted  in 
letters  of  fire  upon  the  scattered,  fleecy  clouds,  as  at 
the  hour  of  her  death  Felicite*  pictured  in  the 
heavens  the  Holy  Ghost  in  the  shape  of  her  pet 
parrot. 


Chapter  IV 
Vi 

BULMER  closed  the  front  door  with  a  pleasant 
sense  of  emergence  into  a  lighter  world.  Be- 
hind him  he  left  not  only  the  hard,  December  day, 
the  east  wind  that  caught  up  dust  and  soiled  paper 
in  crackling  whirlwinds  at  street  corners,  but  also 
his  weekly  world,  without  savor  or  enterprise,  Blake- 
ney,  Sons  &  Co.,  the  meaningless  mercantilism  of  it 
all,  meaningless  because  he  did  not  direct  it.  And 
here,  at  home,  this  Saturday  afternoon,  he  was  to 
clasp,  warm  and  fugitive  as  the  dusky  sweetness  of 
a  woman,  this  little  shadow  of  what  would  soon  be 
rich  reality.  As  he  hung  up  his  hat  he  thought, 
"Two  hours  without  anybody  to  bother."  For  Mrs. 
Buhner  and  Henrietta  were  at  a  matinee  at  Daly's, 
having  doubtless  waited  outside  the  pit  door,  and 
there  eaten  their  sandwiches.  Only  Eleanor  would 
be  at  home,  partly  because  she  sniffed  at  any  comedy 
that  called  itself  "The  Shop-girl,"  "The  Dancing 
Girl,"  or  any  sort  of  girl,  partly  because,  as  Mrs. 
Buhner  put  it,  the  house  could  not  be  left.  But  she 
would  not  worry  him.  He  could  hear  her  in  the 
drawing-room  struggling  with  the  second  movement 
of  the   "Moonlight  Sonata,"   and  breaking  down 

viciously. 
7  87 


*8  CALIBAN  U 

So  the  dining-room  was  his.  Generally  he  worked 
in  his  bedroom  to  avoid  quarrels  with  his  mother. 
But  to-day  he  wanted  the  dining-room  table,  for  the 
occasion  was  historic;  he  was  to  choose  the  format 
and  cover  of  Zip.  A  little  self-conscious,  he  laid  his 
papers  upon  the  table,  and  only  when  he  sat  down 
did  he  notice,  squatting  on  the  floor  by  the  window, 
a  figure  which  had  turned  its  head  for  a  moment 
and  glanced  at  him,  then  bent  down  again  to  work. 
It  was  the  upholsteress.  For  Mrs.  Bulmer  had  at 
last  realized  that  the  horsehair  was  bursting  out  of 
the  couch  and  that  Mr.  Bulmer' s  arm-chair  was  in 
such  a  state  that  it  was  not  safe  to  let  a  neighbor  in. 
As  the  drawing-room  was  not  always  ready  for 
visitors,  something  had  to  be  done.  So  the  uphol- 
steress was  basting  loose  covers  of  brown  cretonne 
with  blue  flowers,  which  Mrs.  Bulmer  said  were  not 
as  pretty  as  they  might  be,  but  wouldn't  show  the 
dirt.  For  a  moment  Bulmer  hesitated.  This  was  a 
day  when  he  wanted  to  be  alone.  He  did  not  fear 
disturbance,  for  he  could  think  clearly  in  Charing 
Cross  Station  if  he  thought  of  his  own  affairs;  but, 
that  afternoon,  a  certain  sense  of  sacredness  was 
upon  him.  He  would  go  upon  his  knees  to  his 
monster.  And  that  woman  on  the  floor,  the  clipping 
noises  she  made  with  the  scissors,  annoyed  him. 
But  he  knew  he  would  not  get  the  right  effect  on  his 
washhandstand.  The  drawing-room,  with  Eleanor 
murdering  that  music?  No.  Resolutely  he  spread 
out  the  dummy  sheets  and  the  colored  covers,  tried 
to  absorb  himself.  Yes,  that  was  a  good  green.  But, 
he  thought: 

"Tit-Bits  green.    Of  course,  that  wouldn't  matter 

88 


1g VI « 

.  .  .  but  if  Zip  got  on  the  stalls  it  would.  Even 
though  Zip  is  only  to  be  a  monthly.  What  about 
orange?"  Then  a  faint  sound  on  his  left  disturbed 
him.  It  went  on.  The  woman  was  humming. 
Actually  humming!  Damn  her!  He  glanced  side- 
ways at  the  upholsteress,  who,  tacking  the  cover, 
went  on: 

"I  don't  want  to  play  in  your  yard, 
I  don't  like  you  any  mo-er! 
You'll  be  sorry  when  you  see  me 
Swinging  on  our  garden  door."  .  .  . 


Irritating.  But  what  was  he  to  do?  Then  he 
noticed  that  the  door  was  shut,  and  remembered 
that  his  mother  always  liked  the  door  open  when 
there  was  a  stranger  in  the  house,  because  you  never 
knew.  So  he  opened  it  and  sat  down  again.  As  he 
did  this  he  saw  the  woman  better,  and  her  face 
pleased  him.  He  guessed  that  she  was  rather  short, 
but  very  broad — agreeably  so.  As  she  bent  he  saw 
that  her  neck  was  dark  and  thick,  and  that  from  her 
hair  fainfc  black  down  ran  to  her  collar.  He  had  a 
glimpse  of  rather  coarse  lips  and  a  foreshortened 
nose,  fine  dark  eyes  which  for  a  moment  met  his. 
But  the  devotional  mood  was  still  upon  him,  and  once 
more  he  sat  down.  Only  she  disturbed  him.  He 
found  himself  listening  as  she  went  on: 


"You  sha'n't  holler  down  our  rain-barrel, 
You  sha'n't  climb  our  apple-tree. 
I  don't  want  to  play  in  your  yard 
If  you  won't  be  good  to  me.", 
89 


•g  CALIBAN  ]B 

He  concentrated  on  the  idea  of  money.  It  was 
all  very  well,  but  he  was  starting  on  a  very  little — 
forty-eight  pounds  saved  up  somehow  during  the 
years,  and  ten  pounds  borrowed  from  Hawes.  And 
to  obtain  those  ten  pounds  he  had  had  to  bully  and 
cajole  Hawes  into  believing  that  if  he  became  a 
journalist  he  would  get  orders  for  the  theaters. 
Fifty-eight  pounds!  And  an  issue,  say  five  thousand 
to  start  with,  wouldn't  cost  less  than  twenty-two 
pounds.  That  left  thirty-six  pounds  working  capi- 
tal with  which  to  meet  the  costs  of  distribution  and 
of  the  next  issue.  He'd  have  to  make  at  least  thirty 
pounds  out  of  cash  sales  on  the  first  issue.  As  for 
advertisements  ...  he  couldn't  tell  until  he  saw 
Hawes.  Then  the  woman  stood  up.  As  she  did  so 
Bulmer  noticed  with  a  thrill  the  fine,  full  curves  of 
her  body,  and  two  strong,  dark  hands,  which  she 
placed  on  her  hips  as  she  stood  back  from  the  arm- 
chair, rejoicing,  it  seemed,  in  her  work.  Then  she 
turned  and  said: 

"That's  not  bad,  is  it?" 

Bulmer  looked  at  the  arm-chair  with  an  air  of 
profound  criticism  and  said:  "No,  it  looks  all  right. 
Bit  loose  over  the  left  arm,  don't  you  think?" 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  the  woman,  patting  the 
left  arm.  "No,  it's  not  loose.  It '11  settle.  Look," 
and  she  patted  it  into  place. 

Bulmer  came  closer  and  said,  vaguely,  "Oh  yes, 
you're  right."  He  was  conscious  of  her  rather  more 
violently,  of  her  deliberate  air,  and  much  more  of 
the  pleasant  animality  of  her,  the  suggestion  of 
abundant  blood  running  under  her  dark  skin;  on 
the  cheeks  lay  an  apricot  flush.    He  decided  she  was 

90 


« vi        « 

ugly,  and  at  the  same  time  rested  upon  her  a  dis- 
turbed gaze.  She  smiled,  and  he  liked  her  good, 
irregular  teeth. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "that's  done.  Now  for  the  sofa. 
That's  a  job."  He  watched  her  go  to  the  sofa  and 
measure  it  roughly.  She  interested  him,  but  his 
major  preoccupation  ousted  her. 

"Well,"  he  said,  with  false  ease,  "I  suppose  you 
must  go  on  with  your  work  and  I  with  mine."  But 
he  went  on  looking  at  her  as  if  an  instinct  in  him 
bade  him  force  her  to  ask  him  what  this  work  was. 
He  couldn't  very  well  tell  her:  "I  am  Richard  Bul- 
mer.  I  am  creating  a  magazine.  I  am  a  great 
man."  But  a  sense  of  the  appropriate  told  him  that 
she  ought  to  want  to  know  those  things.  And, 
marvelously,  she  did  not  fail  him,  for,  with  half- 
unconcern,  she  said: 

"Oh,  I  suppose  you  mean  all  those  papers." 

"Yes." 

"What  are  all  those  colored  bits?" 

"Those,"  said  Buhner,  at  last  gaining  relief,  "are 
the  proposed  covers  of  my  new  magazine.  It's 
called  Zip,  Of  course  you  haven't  heard  of  it  yet 
.  .  .  but  you  will." 

"I'm  sure  I  shall,"  said  the  woman,  smiling.  "I 
read  lots  of  them.    I  do  love  Answers." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Bulmer,  hurriedly.  "Answers  is 
all  right.  But  we  want  something  new.  Something 
with  more  zip." 

The  dark  eyes  opened  as  she  said,  "What  is  zip?" 

"Zip?"  said  Bulmer.  "Oh,  well,  it's  not  easy  to 
explain.  It  means  something  with  a  lot  of  go.  It 
means  that  .  .  .  that  you're  on  it  like  a  bird.     See 

91 


*«  CALIBAN  *8? 

what  I  mean?  The  latest,  and  a  bit  later  than  the 
latest,  if  you  can  work  it." 

"Oh!"  said  the  woman.  "I  see  what  you  mean; 
something  that's  bang  up-to-date." 

" You've  got  it,"  said  Bulmer,  delighted.  "Mind 
you,  it's  not  going  to  be  a  newspaper,  only  a  monthly. 
But  it  '11  be  all  about  the  things  that  are  in  the 
newspapers;  the  things  that  everybody's  talking 
about." 

" That's  the  idea,"  said  the  woman.  "How  clever 
of  you  to  think  of  it." 

"Oh  no,"  said  Bulmer,  "there's  nothing  clever 
about  it.    One  only  had  to  think  of  it." 

"What  are  you  going  to  put  in  it?"  said  the 
woman.  "Perhaps  you  oughtn't  to  tell  me,  but  I 
do  so  want  to  know." 

"There's  no  harm  in  telling  you,"  said  Bulmer. 
"We  want  everybody  to  know.  There's  going  to 
be  jokes,  and  funny  stories,  and  facts;  oh,  thousands 
of  facts.  If  there's  a  coronation  going  on  we'll  tell 
you  all  about  the  other  coronations,  where  they  hap- 
pened, and  who  was  there,  and  what  they  wore.  If 
there's  a  good  murder,  we'll  tell  you  how  other 
famous  murders  were  done.  And  who  was  killed. 
And  by  whom,  and  why  it  happened.  And  lots  of 
interesting  things,  things  like  ...  oh,  anything !  how 
many  cases  of  butterflies  come  into  the  country 
from  Borneo,  or  how  to  tell  an  oak  from  a  beech  by 
the  leaves,  or  ...  or  anything,  everything.  The 
things  everybody  wants  to  know." 

"Aren't  there  going  to  be  any  love-stories?"  asked 
the  woman. 

"Of  course  there  will.    Love's  always  up-to-date. 

92 


VI  « 


But,  mind  you,  nothing  sloppy.  Everything  we'll 
put  in  '11  have  zip." 

"How  splendid!"  said  the  woman.  "You  aren't 
one  of  the  sleepy  ones." 

"You  bet,"  said  Buhner,  "we'll  startle  'em.  Look 
at  these  covers.  We  want  a  cover  that  '11  get  off 
a  book-stall  and  give  you  a  black  eye." 

"That  orange  one  'd  do  it,"  said  the  woman. 

"It  might,  but  it's  the  same  color  as  Answers, 
And  the  green  one's  no  good,  it's  Tit-Bits.  We  don't 
want  to  be  taken  for  Tit-Bits ,"  he  added,  in  a  tone  of 
violent  contempt. 

"That  strawberry's  pretty,"  said  the  woman. 

"That's  no  good.  Same  color  as  Pearson's  Weekly 
and  Modern  Society.  Besides,  that  pink  '11  fade  in 
the  sun.  It's  got  no  zip.  I  want  .  .  .  oh,  I  don't 
know."  He  was  not  looking  at  her.  His  eyes  fixed 
in  space,  Bulmer  was  dreaming  of  a  color  that  would 
outshine  gold  and  make  crimson  pallid.  "It's  no 
good,"  he  said,  miserably,  as  he  fell  from  the  dream 
into  reality.  "The  people  who  made  color  didn't 
understand  zip." 

"Cheer  up,"  said  the  woman,  "I'm  sure  you'll 
find  what  you  want.  What  about  egg  yellow?  Or 
...  if  you  want  to  startle  'em,  why  not  have 
spots?" 

"Spots!"  said  Bulmer,  rapturously.  "A  green 
cover  with  pink  spots!  That's  the  idea.  No,  that 
wouldn't  do;  they'd  say  the  paper  had  broken  out 
into  a  rash.  But  you're  right.  It  isn't  color  that 
matters,  but  how  you  use  it.  Look!  Look!"  and, 
excitedly  seizing  her  by  the  wrist,  he  drew  her  to 
the  table.     Upon  a  plain  blue  sheet  he  drew  under 

93 


« 


CALIBAN 


033 

«7 


the  word  "Zip"  an  enormous  black  circle,  then  drew 
back,  holding  it  up. 


"It's  lovely,"  he  murmured.  "They  can't  miss 
it."  He  turned  on  her  gratefully.  "I  say,  that  was 
a  good  idea  of  yours." 

"I  didn't  think  of  it,"  said  the  woman.  "I  just 
said  spots.     It  was  you  thought  of  it." 

"Never  mind.  It's  a  splendid  idea.  You  see  it, 
don't  you?" 

"Oh  yes,  you  couldn't  miss  that." 

"Of  course  one  couldn't.  You  understand."  He 
looked  at  her  softly.  It  was  exquisite  to  be  so  under- 
stood. Then  he  talked  abundantly.  He  told  her 
how  much  capital  he  had,  how  much  the  issue  would 
cost,  how  he  was  going  to  make  it  up.  "It's  going 
to  be  a  howling  success,"  he  said.  "Of  course  you 
may  say  we  sha'n't  get  it  on  the  stalls,  but  that 
doesn't  matter.  I'm  going  to  let  small  boys  have  it 
for  the  first  month  at  a  penny.  That's  what  it  costs 
me;  and  sell  it  at  threepence  outside  the  railway 
stations.  It's  a  pity  we  can't  afford  a  poster.  We 
can't  afford  anything,  but  I'll  sell  it.  I'm  no  juggins; 
I'm  going  to  plant  it  on  all  the  societies  round  about 
here,  and  I'm  getting  hold  of  people  in  the  choirs, 
and  the  office-boys  at  my  place  are  going  to  have  a 
go  with  it  outside  the  chop-houses  and  the  A.  B.  C.'s 
in  the  city  during  the  lunch  hour.    Might  print  a 

94 


u 

(( 


«?  VI  m 

special  lot  for  that.  What  about  a  heading:  'Take 
Zip  with  your  lunch;  it  makes  it  go  down/  No, 
that  wouldn't  do;  they'd  only  say,  'Take  Zip  with 
your  lunch;  it  makes  it  come  up.'  No,  we  mustn't 
spoil  it,  must  we,  by  adding  anything?" 

"No,"  said  the  woman,  "of  course  you  mustn't." 
Ah,  you  understand  what  I  mean,"  said  Buhner. 
What's  your  name?" 

"Miss  Elsted." 

"No,  I  don't  mean  that  name.  What's  your  other 
name?" 

The  upholsteress  looked  at  him  through  her  black 
eyelashes  and  said:  "You're  getting  on,  aren't 
you?    Still,  I  don't  mind.    My  name  5s  Vi." 

"Vi,"  he  said.  "Short  for  Violet,  I  suppose." 
Then  his  eyes  left  hers,  and  for  a  moment  he  stood 
rapturous  before  the  vision  of  the  blue  cover  with  the 
enormous  black  spot.  Vi  looked  at  him  with  a  slow 
smile  of  understanding,  and  went  to  the  sofa,  where 
she  knelt,  loosely  fitting  the  cretonne  into  place  by 
means  of  pins,  of  which  a  little  hedge  stuck  out  from 
her  mouth.  WTien  Eleanor  came  in,  a  few  minutes 
later,  this  being  her  duty  from  time  to  time  when 
there  was  a  stranger  in  the  house — she  sniffed  loudly, 
for  she  hated  the  litter  of  papers  on  the  table.  As 
for  Richard,  he  did  not  look  at  her,  so  she  went 
away.  Had  he  not  been  so  absorbed  she  might  have 
found  fault  in  the  companionship.  Also,  there  was 
something  very  respectable  in  the  hedge  of  pins  that 
protruded  from  Vi's  lips. 

After  supper  that  night,  though,  she  thought  it 
right  to  mention  the  matter  to  her  mother,  and  a 
slight  quarrel  thus  arose  between  her  and  Henrietta. 

95 


«  CALIBAN  « 

"You  see  love-making  everywhere/7  said  Hen- 
rietta, tartly. 

"So  do  you,"  said  Eleanor. 

"I'm  afraid  it  is  everywhere,"  said  Mrs.  Buhner. 
"Still,  of  course,  Richard  would  never  commit  him- 
self with  a  girl  like  that." 

Meanwhile  Bulmer  and  Hawes,  locked  up  in  the 
bedroom,  considered  Bulmer' s  bed,  almost  entirely 
covered  with  scraps  of  paper.  Hawes  sat  at  the 
washhandstand,  converted  into  a  writing-table. 

"Notes  of  the  week  to  start,"  said  Hawes. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.     Call  them  snippets." 

"Where  are  you  going  to  get  your  snippets  i'rom?" 

"From  the  papers.  Here's  one  of  them,"  said 
Bulmer,  holding  out  a  cutting  from  the  Daily  News, 
stating  that  a  Crimean  veteran  had  died  in  the  work- 
house. "You  just  look  up  in  the  encyclopedia  how 
many  went  to  the  Crimea  and  how  many  were  in 
the  Mutiny.  And  then  look  up  a  few  more  wars  . . . 
and  there  you  are." 

"Oh! ' fighting  men,  past  and  present.'  Right-o!" 
said  Hawes.  "And  let's  have  something  to  tickle 
the  girls  with.  What  about  Rosherville  Gardens 
compared  with  the  Crystal  Palace?" 

"That's  the  ticket.  You  dig  out  Vauxhall  while 
I  look  up  the  C  volume  and  find  out  about  Cre- 
morne." 

They  went  on  enthusiastically,  searching  the 
week's  newspapers  for  anecdotes,  noting  dates  of  the 
opening  of  theaters,  cutting  out  from  the  law  cases 
the  figures  quoted  by  the  parties  in  a  dressmaker's 
action — on  this  they  based  an  article  called  "What 
women  spend  on  clothes."    A  sort  of  hysteria  seized 

96 


*g VI « 

them.  An  ecstatic  realization  of  the  enormous  abun- 
dance of  facts,  of  the  passionate  interest  of  facts. 
At  half  past  ten  Mrs.  Buhner  knocked  at  the  door, 
then  violently  rattled  the  handle  when  she  found  it 
locked. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  locking  your  door?" 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  I  lock  my  door?"  asked 
Bulmer. 

"There's  no  need  to  lock  your  door,"  said  Mrs. 
Bulmer,  who  discerned  in  this  a  wilful  insult.  "And 
what  are  you  doing,  you  two?" 

Bulmer  grinned:  "Zip,  mother,  zip.  Hawes  and 
I  are  going  to  fill  you  with  zip." 

"Never  heard  such  nonsense  in  my  life.  Wasting 
your  time,  both  of  you,  when  you  might  be  doing 
something  useful.  How  do  you  expect  to  get  on  if 
you  don't  make  yourselves  useful  to  your  employer? 
If  you  were  to  learn  bookkeeping  or  German,  I 
shouldn't  say.  You're  wasting  your  time  and  you'll 
lose  your  money,  and  don't  say  I  didn't  tell  you  so. 
How  much  longer  are  you  going  to  be?  " 

"All  night,"  said  the  fervent  Bulmer. 

It  took  them  some  time  to  get  rid  of  Mrs.  Bulmer, 

who  went  at  last,  slamming  the  door,  intoning  as  she 

went   down-stairs   a  diminishing  song:    "Perfectly 

ridiculous.    Never  heard  of  such  nonsense,"  but  they 

locked  the  door  again,  and  more  notes  were  made, 

and  a  column  as  advanced  as  Miss  Murrow's  was 

set  up.     And  it  was  decided  to  offer  a  monthly  prize 

of  five  pounds  for  a  short  story  which  Hawes  was  to 

write,  though,  of  course,  he  wouldn't  get  the  prize. 

And  they  decided  to  find  another  poet.     Brill  was 

hopeless. 

97 


*8  CALIBAN  IB 

"Good  God!"  said  Buhner,  "what  does  the  fellow 
think  he's  doing?    Listen  to  this  rot: 

"As  a  robin  in  the  winter-time 
My  heart  .  .  ." 

Oh,  he  makes  me  sick.  You  know  the  sort  of  thing 
we  want,  Alf;  something  about  holding  hands  on 
Brighton  Pier.  Bub  never  mind,  we'll  find  one. 
After  all,  we  can  do  without  a  poet  in  the  first  issue. 
There's  no  zip  in  poetry.  Not  really.  Oh,  Alf,  I  do 
wish  the  thing  was  out.  We  are  going  to  have  a 
time." 

"Ah,"  said  Hawes,  "we're  bound  to  sell  the  first 
lot." 

"How's  that?"  asked  Bulmer. 

"One  always  sells  the  first  issue.  It's  the  second 
that  doesn't  go.  When  they've  stopped  being 
curious." 

"We'll  make  'em  curious.  We'll  give  'em  zip. 
Alf,  if  we  sell  that  five  thousand,  I'm  going  to  print 
ten  thousand  next  time." 

"Seems  a  lot." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  That's  only  the  beginning. 
We're  going  to  sell  fifty  thousand  a  month,  a  hun- 
dred thousand  a  month,  and  then,  old  boy,  you'll 
see  the  advertisements  rolling  in." 

They  rediscussed  the  format,  discarded  and  re- 
adopted  the  cover,  quarreled  as  to  whether  there 
should  be  two  columns  to  a  page  or  three.  They 
even  began  the  serial.  It  started  magnificently,  with 
a  millionaire  being  found  scalped  in  Park  Lane, 
while  next  day  a  tramp  was  found  in  a  similar  con- 
dition near  East  India  Dock. 

98 


<$  vi  IS 

" That'll  raise  their  hair,"  said  the  facetious 
Hawes. 

But  they  prudently  decided  to  solve  the  mystery 
before  printing  the  first  instalment.  They  talked 
loudly  in  the  brilliant  winter  night,  more  and  more 
excited,  more  and  more  hopeful,  and  every  moment 
more  secure  in  their  successful  youth.  The  twelve 
sheets  were  ill  filled,  for  they  were  novices  and  did 
not  know  that  publications  can  never  be  what  one 
hopes.  They  were  thrilled  and  anxious  before  those 
blank  sheets,  upon  which  they  were  to  inscribe 
themselves. 

At  last,  a  little  before  dawn,  when  the  avaricious 
night  was  yielding  in  the  eastern  horizon  to  a  green 
pallor,  Buhner  threw  up  the  sash  and  looked  away 
across  the  rising  houses  of  Swiss  Cottage;  filled  his 
lungs  with  the  cold  air.  He  smiled  in  slight  hos- 
tility, and  said: 

"  We'll  give  'em  zip.  They  don't  know  what 
they're  in  for.  They  don't  understand."  For  a 
moment  he  thought  of  the  dark,  heavy  face  of  the 
one  woman  who  so  far  understood.  "  She's  no  fool," 
he  thought.  "Fine  pair  of  eyes."  Then,  again,  he 
grinned  at  the  lightening  sky,  and  murmured, 
"We'll  give  'em  zip." 


Chapter  V 
A  Kiss 

THERE  was  zip,  now,  in  every  moment  of  Bul- 
mer's  life;  zip,  indeed,  except  in  the  circulation 
of  Zip.  Hawes  was  right;  the  first  number  suc- 
ceeded, and  made  a  clear  profit  of  twenty-one  pounds, 
allowance  being  made  for  unsold  returns.  The  sec- 
ond number,  though  better  supported — for  the  first 
had  brought  in  a  few  advertisements — showed  a 
drop  in  circulation  of  nearly  a  thousand  copies 
and  a  deficit  of  two  pounds.  The  young  editors 
nearly  dissolved  their  partnership,  because  Hawes 
said: 

"What's  the  matter,  is  the  paper  too  tame?  They 
want  smut.  Let's  start  a  series,  'Gay  Nights  by 
the  Gaiety/  " 

"Don't  talk  rot,"  said  Buhner.  "You  know  quite 
well  that  sort  of  paper  sells  a  bit,  but  it  never  goes 
on." 

"Yes,  it  does.  There's  always  a  demand  for  hot 
stuff." 

"Well,  you'd  better  go  and  start  one  yourself," 
said  Bulmer.  "What  circulation  do  you  think  we'd 
get  out  of  smut?  Twenty  thousand?  thirty  thou- 
sand?    I   don't   say   they   don't   want   smut.     Of 

course  they  do.     But  they  daren't  buy  it.     Too 

100 


*g  A  KISS "    *      "  "'« 

damned  respectable.  Too  much  afraid  that  some  one 
will  see  them  with  it  in  the  Underground." 

"Well,  call  it  The  Bible  News,  and  then  you  can 
put  in  what  you  like,"  said  Hawes. 

The  wrangle  lasted  for  a  long  time  and  was 
stopped  only  by  Mrs.  Buhner,  who  banged  the  wall 
at  intervals  and  asked  how  much  longer  this  was 
going  on.  In  the  end  Buhner  managed  to  make 
Hawes  understand  that  if  one  wanted  a  large  cir- 
culation (and  what  was  the  good  of  life  without  a 
large  circulation?)  one  wasn't  likely  to  get  it  except 
out  of  the  home,  and  family,  and  dogs,  and  gardens, 
and  how  to  make  a  chest  of  drawers  out  of  egg-boxes. 
Living  in  those  early  days  of  popular  magazines  he 
had  enough  instinct  to  learn  the  lesson  of  Answers 
and  Tit-Bits.  A  personal  revelation  told  him  that 
mankind  did  not  really  care  for  politics,  but  for 
politicians;  nor  about  religion,  but  about  comic 
curates.  With  rapturous  certainty  he  realized  that 
most  human  beings  hated  their  work,  and  that  by 
natural  reaction  they  loved  the  pleasures  accessible 
to  them — home  carpentry,  the  rosebush,  tasty, 
cheap  dishes.  Sometimes,  when  he  walked  north  of 
Regent's  Park,  toward  Highgate,  he  looked  at  the 
rows  of  villas  that  were  just  running  up,  and  told 
himself  that  all  those  houses  were  alike,  all  those 
gardens  alike ;  thus  they  must  be  let  to  people  whose 
tastes  were  all  alike.  If  one  could  discover  that 
taste  one  would  be  able  to  sell  the  same  publication 
all  along  the  row,  just  as  one  sold  the  same  quality 
of  tea.  And  sometimes,  standing  upon  Primrose 
Hill  and  watching  London,  that  brooded  in  her  misty 

hollow,  he  rejoiced  as  he  thought  of  those  millions 

101 


*g  CALIBAN jl? 

of  people,  all  alike,  desirous  of  unity.  It  was  an 
excited,  half-sacred  feeling,  as  if  he  and  Zip  had  a 
mission  to  unite  them. 

And  he  was  right,  for  the  third  number  made  a 
small  profit.     In  the  fourth  he  invested  all  his  profits ; 
he  sold  it  by  means  of  sandwich-men,  who  also  ex- 
hibited boards.    This  beat  the  circulation  of  the  first 
number,  but  earned  a  net  profit  of  only  nine  pounds. 
It  was  on  the  Saturday  that  he  realized  with  sudden 
certainty  that  Zip  was  going  to  float.     He  had  come 
back  at  half  past  six,  exhausted,  less  by  labor  than 
by  excitement.    When  he  came  into  the  dining-room 
he  found  Vi  relining  the  curtains,  and  at  once  an 
aching  desire  invaded  him  to  tell  her  what  was  hap- 
pening.   But,  as  if  some  suspicion  were  in  them,  Mrs. 
Bulmer  and  Henrietta  sat  at  the  dining-room  table; 
his  mother  was  removing  with  benzine  stains  from 
one   of   his   waistcoats,    while   Henrietta   absently 
turned  the  leaves  of  The  Family  Friend.    He  stared 
at  them  angrily,  but  they  took  no  notice  of  him. 
Nor  did  Vi  even  look  up.    On  her  hands  and  knees, 
she  went  on  fitting  the  lining  to  the  worn  damask. 
For  some  time  he  looked  at  her,  half  held  by  the 
fine  curves  of  her  figure  and  the  dark  neck  shadowed 
with  black  down.    He  moved  about  the  room,  open- 
ing books,  sitting  down  to  read,  and  getting  up  again. 
He  nearly  lit  a  cigarette,  until  he  remembered  that 
this  was  disapproved  of;  he  was  suffering  intolerable 
pangs;    he  wanted  to  talk  of  his  own  affairs,  and 
could  not. 

At  last  he  thought,  "This  place  is  choking  me," 
and  left  the  house,  unconscious  that  behind  this 
thought  lay  the  knowledge  that  Vi  would  have  done 

102 


°e  A  KISS 


her  work  in  a  few  minutes  and  would  come  out.  He 
stood  for  a  moment  at  the  corner  of  Portsdown  Road. 
He  was  not  hiding,  exactly,  but  the  pillar-box  stood 
between  him  and  the  house.  He  found  no  excite- 
ment in  this  adventure,  nor  shame  in  hiding  and 
deceiving.  Buhner  seldom  harbored  more  than  one 
idea  at  a  time,  and  that  idea  was  always  very  strong. 
Now  he  knew  that  he  wanted  to  talk  to  Vi  about 
Zip,  that  he  would  wait  until  she  came  out.  Five 
minutes;  or  an  hour.  And  it  might  rain.  It  might 
rain  potatoes,  for  all  he  cared  .  .  .  but  he  was  going 
to  talk  to  Vi  about  Zip. 

He  did  not  have  to  wait  long.  A  dark  figure  out- 
lined itself  on  the  holystoned  steps,  and,  on  passing 
the  gate,  turned  to  the  right.  Bulmer  did  not  hesi- 
tate; confident  that  speed  would  save  discovery, 
he  ran  back  along  Carlton  Vale  and,  catching  the 
girl  up  at  the  corner  of  Cambridge  Road,  seized 
her  by  the  arm  and  said,  "I  say,  I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

She  had  not  started,  though  no  understanding 
existed  between  them.  It  was  part  of  her  calm  ac- 
ceptance of  things  that  she  should  say  nothing.  It 
was  obvious  to  her  that  the  young  man  wanted  to 
make  love  to  her.  She  reflected  that  she  didn't 
mind.  His  fairness,  his  slight,  supple  frame,  ap- 
pealed to  her  dark  slowness.  So,  while  Bulmer  for 
a  moment  forgot  her,  she  walked  on  with  him,  a 
little  moved  and  flattered,  and  wondered  in  what 
way  he  would  declare  himself.     He  said: 

"Have  you  read  Zip?" 

As  she  opened  her  mouth  to  say  no,  her  femininity 
warned  her  that  it  was  safe  to  lie,  for  he  would  tell 

8  103 


H CALIBAN « 

her  enough  about  it  to  save  her  exposure.     So  she 
said,  "Yes,  it's  fine." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you  think  so!"  said  Bulmer. 
She  smiled,  attracted  by  the  light  in  his  eyes. 

"It's  going  to  be  a  success,"  said  Bulmer.  "A 
howling  success."  He  went  over  the  contents  of 
the  first  four  numbers,  breaking  off  into  enthusiastic 
demands  that  she  should  laugh  at  this  joke,  or  be 
amused  by  the  persistence  of  Hawes  digging  out  of 
time-tables  record  railway  runs.  As  they  went 
down  Walterton  Road  and  across  the  canal  bridge  to 
Westbourne  Park,  he  talked  in  a  more  febrile  tone. 
Zip  was  going  to  make  thirty  pounds  a  month, 
forty  pounds  a  month.  It  was  going  to  be  sold 
everywhere.  Not  only  in  London,  but  in  the  prov- 
inces. Football!  there  was  something  in  football. 
What  about  prizes  for  forecasts  of  the  cup-tie  re- 
sults? And  women!  one  mustn't  forget  women. 
Paper  patterns!  What  about  a  paper  pattern  as  a 
supplement?  They  stopped  for  a  moment  at  West- 
bourne  Park  Station,  and,  solemnly,  Bulmer  said: 
"There's  going  to  be  something  in  it  for  every  man, 
woman,  or  child.  Children!  I'd  forgotten  children. 
We  must  have  a  children's  corner.  Tote!  Tiny 
tots,  that's  it." 

She  was  three  years  older  than  he,  and  she  looked 
at  him  with  amusement,  half -maternally;  then,  still 
led  by  her  instinct,  she  remembered  that  this  issue 
had  invaded  the  book-stalls  of  the  Metropolitan 
Railway.  So  she  said,  "Wait  for  me  a  minute,"  and 
went  into  the  station.  She  came  out,  carrying  the 
magazine  with  the  electric-blue  cover  and  the  great 
black  pod. 

104 


«  A  KISS  1? 

The  young  man  did  not  speak,  but  in  his  throat 
something  moved,  and  a  soft,  warm  feeling  over- 
whelmed him.  They  went  a  few  steps  side  by  side. 
The  spring  night  was  very  dark;  instinctively  they 
turned  to  the  right  down  a  street  just  past  a  public- 
house,  and  lined  with  untidy  gardens.  They  stopped. 
There  was  nobody  about,  and  in  the  darkness,  as 
she  stood  holding  the  magazine,  whose  blue  was 
muted  into  gray,  he  saw  the  gleam  of  her  teeth  as 
she  smiled  and  a  gentle  radiance  rise  from  her  dark 
eyes.  Without  a  word  he  put  his  arms  round  the 
broad  shoulders  and,  as  she  resisted  not  at  all, 
drew  her  close.  So,  for  a  while  he  held  her  clasped, 
his  lips  locked  with  hers,  gratefully  rather  than  pas- 
sionately. He  was  very  happy.  He  was  successful, 
and  his  senses  were  greatly  stirred  by  the  scent, 
half  artificial  and  half  animal,  that  rose  from  her 
dark  hair. 

At  last  she  said :  "Let  me  go.     I  must  go." 

"Where  do  you  live?"  he  asked,  suddenly  de- 
scending from  his  elevated  mood. 

She  told  him,  then  again  said:  "Let  me  go.  Yes, 
you  shall  see  me  again  if  you  like." 

"When?" 

"This  day  week." 

"No,"  cried  Buhner,  urgently.     He  did  not  yet 

hunger  for  her,  but  already  she  was  precious,  because 

in  a  skeptical  world  she  alone  believed  in  him;  they 

were  joined  as  solitary  votaries  of  Zip.     Half  smiling, 

she  said,  "Friday."    He  begged  for  the  next  day, 

and  at  last,  day  by  day,  she  instinctively  refusing, 

and  he  instinctively  pressing,  they  settled  that  he 

should  meet  her  outside  Peter  Robinson's  on  the 

105 


°$  CALIBAN j£ 

Monday.  For  Vi  was  employed  at  Liberty's,  and 
this  explained  why  she  worked  for  Mrs.  Buhner 
always  on  a  Saturday  afternoon.  She  took  a  few 
private  jobs. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "really  you  must  let  me  go." 
She  considered  him  for  a  moment  without  freeing 
herself.  He  pleased  her.  Her  slow  nature  rejoiced 
in  his  activity.  She  told  herself  that  he  had  go  .  .  . 
or  zip,  as  he  put  it.  He  was  a  funny  boy.  She 
realized  that  he  must  be  her  junior,  but  his  caresses 
had  quickened  in  her  some  activity.  So  she  mur- 
mured again:  "Let  me  go.  You  mustn't  follow  me 
home.  It  wouldn't  look  well."  Half  shyly,  she 
stroked  his  cheek,  kissed  him  lightly,  and  with  a  soft 
movement  freed  herself  and  went  away. 

Buhner  remained  for  a  long  time  standing  where 
she  had  left  him,  staring  abstractedly  at  the  Middle 
Class  Shcools.  He  felt  large  and  secure.  Together 
with  his  certainty  of  success  the  caresses  ran  ardent 
through  his  veins.  Before  his  eyes  unrolled  the 
pageantry  of  his  coming  victories.  He  laughed  aloud, 
and,  swinging  his  stick,  walked  back  toward  Carlton 
Vale,  humming  one  of  the  ditties  he  had  learned  from 
Hawes: 

'Come  where  the  booze  is  cheapest! 

Come  where  the  pots  hold  more, 
Come  where  the  boss 
Is  a  bit  of  a  joss, 

And  I  don't  remember  no  more."  .  .  . 

On  the  Monday  morning,  five  minutes  after  arriv- 
ing at  the  office,  he  went  in  to  Mr.  Blakeney,  and 
gave  him  a  week's  notice. 

106 


Chapter  VI 
The  High  Road 

FOR  several  days  Bulmer  concealed  his  resigna- 
tion from  his  family.  Though  this  subject  had 
never  been  discussed — because  it  never  occurred  to 
anybody  that  he  would  do  such  a  thing,  and  because 
his  mother  and  sisters  looked  upon  Zip  as  an  irri- 
tating hobby,  he  had  no  reason  to  reveal  his  vague 
plans.  Now,  when  he  thought  of  it,  which  was  not 
often,  he  saw  that  the  news  would  probably  be  ill 
received.  He  felt  that  his  family  did  not  like  Zip. 
He  had  compelled  them  to  read  it,  and  watched  them 
while  they  did  it,  like  an  anxious  dog  at  the  dinner- 
table.  And  when  Eleanor  said,  "Very  nice,"  and  put 
it  down  on  the  sofa,  while  Mrs.  Bulmer  remarked 
that  this  or  that  was  very  well  written,  he  was 
grateful.  He  was  angry  with  Eleanor,  but  still  he 
fixed  upon  her  eyes  that  were  half  appealing.  He 
did  so  badly  want  her  to  like  Zip.  He  wanted  to 
please  her,  partly  because  it  would  make  him  proud 
to  please  her,  and  partly  just  to  please  her.  He  had 
questioned  his  mother  and  both  his  sisters,  point  by 
point,  to  discover  whether  there  was  anything  in 
the  paper  they  objected  to  and  anything  else  they 
would  like  to  find. 

"They  are  the  public,"  he  thought.     "If  one  only 

107  • 


*  CALIBAN 


knew!"  He  had  dreams  in  which  he  knew  exactly 
what  the  public  wanted,  a  monstrous  sort  of  public 
with  staring  eyes,  and  a  great,  loose  mouth,  and  no 
brain.  A  dream  very  like  the  reality.  He  did  not 
hate  the  creature  with  the  silly  eyes,  for  it  was  a 
large  creature  that  could  be  pleased,  made  up  of 
millions  of  grown  men  and  women  that  would  crow 
like  babies  if  only  you  shook  the  right  rattle.  A 
creature  that  slobbered  over  its  bib,  and  cooed  with 
content  over  the  results  of  races  which  it  didn't  bet 
on,  and  pictures  of  the  underclothes  of  actresses  in 
another  continent,  and  details  of  the  weddings  of 
royalties  it  had  never  seen.  Bulmer  tolerated  the 
British  public,  and  saw  no  harm  in  its  imbecile  look 
when  confronted  with  a  new  idea,  in  its  mean  re- 
vengefulness,  its  keyhole  curiosities,  and  its  lick- 
spittle snobberies.  He  felt  that  the  British  public 
was  like  a  great  ape,  begging  you  to  scratch  it,  and 
he  was  willing  to  scratch  it;  after  all,  perhaps  the 
poor  thing  itched. 

He  knew  that  it  would  be  a  little  difficult  to  ex- 
plain that  sort  of  thing  to  Mrs.  Bulmer,  so,  for  four 
days,  he  left  the  house  at  the  usual  time  and  re- 
turned in  the  evening,  spending  the  day  in  going 
round  book-stalls  and  asking  indignantly  why  they 
hadn't  got  Zip,  and  when  they  were  going  to  get  up- 
to-date.  But  at  the  end  of  three  days  he  had  done 
with  most  of  the  book-stalls,  and  also  it  began  to 
rain.  It  was  wet  for  the  whole  of  the  third  day. 
And  the  fourth  day  it  rained  still  more  heavily;  so, 
on  the  fifth,  realizing  that  he  could  not  go  on  spend- 
ing hours  in  public  libraries  and  Underground  sta- 
tions, he  decided  to  tell.     If  Bulmer  had  been  a 

108 


•g  THE  HIGH  ROAD V 

coward  the  telling  would  have  been  more  fortunate, 
for  he  would  have  schemed  a  suitable  moment;  but 
as  his  main  desire  was  to  avoid  giving  pain,  he  told 
the  truth  in  a  sentence  at  the  worst  possible  moment. 
He  did  it  five  minutes  before  supper,  when  Mrs. 
Buhner  was  unnecessarily  interfering  with  Hettie  in 
the  kitchen,  and  walking  round  and  round  her, 
begging  her  not  to  drop  the  triangular  cover  of  the 
potato-dish,  because  it  couldn't  be  matched.  Mean- 
while, Eleanor,  in  the  bedroom,  was  screaming  down 
the  stairs  because  somebody  had  taken  her  soap. 

"What  .  .  .  what  do  you  mean,  left?"  asked  Mrs. 
Buhner,  holding  the  soup-tureen. 

"I  have  left  the  office." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you've  been  dismissed?" 
asked  Mrs.  Buhner,  while  Henrietta  remained  in  a 
frozen  attitude,  holding  high  the  lid  of  the  stew-pot. 

"Of  course  I  haven't  got  the  sack.  I've  sacked 
Blakeney,  Sons  &  Co." 

"You've  .  .  ."  gasped  Mrs.  Buhner.  She  was  too 
surprised  to  be  angry  just  then.  She  could  under- 
stand Dick  being  dismissed,  but  the  idea  of  his 
leaving  of  his  own  free  will  was  one  she  could  not 
compass.  So,  forgetting  him,  and  absorbed  by  this 
idea,  she  went  up  the  kitchen  stairs,  carrying  the 
soup-tureen.  It  was  only  a  few  minutes  later  that 
the  silence  gave  place  to  debate. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  Buhner,  "you'll  tell  me  why 
you've  done  this,  since  you  didn't  think  it  worth 
while  consulting  me." 

"Oh,  if  I'd  consulted  you  you'd  only  have 
objected." 

"That's  a  pretty  reason.     You  know  I  would 

109 


%  CALIBAN  ]i? 

object  to  a  thing,  and  you  do  it  without  telling  me. 
Without  telling  me!     And  I'd  like  to  know  what 
you're  going  to  do  now." 
"I'm  going  to  run  Zip." 

After  a  moment  of  horrible  silence  Eleanor  said: 

"The  boy's  cracked.     Let  him  alone,  mother." 

"I  shall  certainly  not  let  him  alone,"  said  Mrs. 

Buhner.     "I'm  not  sure  you're  not  right  about  his 

being  cracked,  Ellie.    Still,  perhaps  it's  not  too  late." 

1 '  Of  course  it's  too  late,"  said  Bulmer,  angrily.     "  I 

was  paid  my  last  week  and  I  haven't  been  to  the 

office  for  five  days." 

"Oh,  where  have  you  been  to,  then?" 
"Oh,  I  just  messed  about.     I  didn't  want  to  let 
on  at  first." 

"Deceiving  me!"  said  Mrs.  Bulmer.  "That 
ought  not  to  surprise  me,  considering  what  you've 
done." 

The  discussion  went  on  all  through  supper,  inter- 
rupted by  the  entrance  or  exit  of  one  or  other  of  the 
girls  as  they  went  down-stairs  to  fetch  the  stew,  and 
then  the  apples  and  custard.  Henrietta  did  not  say 
very  much,  and  Bulmer  suspected  that  she  sympa- 
thized with  him.  But  whenever  Eleanor  came  in  or 
went  out  she  flung  in  a  remark.  The  first  was,  "I 
suppose  we  shall  have  to  keep  him."  The  second, 
"That's  what  comes  of  loafing  in  billiard-saloons." 
When  supper  was  done  Mrs.  Bulmer  expanded :  She'd 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing.  She  had  never  dreamed 
of  such  a  thing.  She  was  ashamed;  yes,  ashamed. 
It  was  his  father  coming  out.  Then  she  wept  a  little, 
and  an  interlude  was  provided  because  she  had  lost 

her  little  bag  with  her  handkerchief  in  it.    The  scene 

no 


%  THE  HIGH  ROAD ]B 

terminated  when  Eleanor  and  Henrietta  returned 
after  washing  up,  for  Eleanor  remarked:  "I  expect 
Mr.  Hawes  hasn't  given  up  his  position.  Some  peo- 
ple know  which  side  their  bread's  buttered." 

"Mind  your  own  damn  business,"  shouted  Buhner, 
leaping  out  of  his  chair. 

"There  you  are,  mother,"  said  Eleanor,  with  acid 
sweetness.     "Now  he  swears  at  his  sisters." 

"I'll  knock  your  head  off,  Ellie,"  said  Buhner,  "if 
you  don't  shut  up." 

But  his  anger  passed,  for  he  wanted  Eleanor  to 
approve  of  him;  he  was  too  excited  and  insecure  to 
do  without  even  such  an  ally.  An  immense  desire 
to  show  himself  reasonable  invaded  him. 

"Look  here,  Ellie,"  he  said,  "for  Heaven's  sake 
don't  let's  quarrel.  I've  got  my  way  to  make,  and 
I  must  make  it  as  I  think  best.  If  I  fail,  it's  my 
fault.  You  go  out  giving  piano-lessons  because  you 
choose  to.  Suppose  you  wanted  to  live  out  on  your 
own  and  keep  yourself,  I'd  have  nothing  to  say 
against  it." 

"I  wouldn't  dream  of  doing  such  a  thing,"  said 
Eleanor.     "Not  if  mother  wanted  me  at  home." 

"But  suppose  we  were  well  off  and  you  had  your 
future  to  think  of?" 

"I  should  think  of  my  duty  first,"  said  Eleanor. 

"You'll  be  saying  it's  my  duty  to  stick  at  that  office 
because  mother  wants  me  to." 

"My  wishes  should  certainly  have  a  little  weight 
with  you,  Dick,"  said  Mrs.  Bulmer,  plaintively. 
"And  I'll  be  obliged  if  you  won't  put  ideas  into 
Ellie's  head.  I  know  it's  the  fashion  nowadays  to 
talk  about  girls  leaving  their  home  and  earning  their 

ill 


*g    CALIBAN K 

own  living,  and  having  careers,  as  they  call  it. 
Stuff  and  nonsense !  Of  course  a  man's  different ;  he's 
got  to  get  on.  Girls  .  .  .  well,  your  sisters  have  got 
a  good  home.    Of  course,  if  they  marry  .  .  ." 

Then  they  returned  to  the  consideration  of  Bul- 
mer's  behavior,  and  Eleanor,  a  little  soothed  by  hav- 
ing been  allowed  to  state  her  beautiful  motives,  grew 
more  comforting.  Eleanor  was  acid  in  her  rectitude, 
because  she  was  always  being  shocked  by  the  atro- 
cious behavior  of  other  people.  She  was  herself 
entirely  conscientious,  wholely  self-sacrificing;  so 
long  as  she  was  awake  she  was  willing  to  earn  money 
for  her  family,  or  to  work  in  their  kitchen;  she  had 
no  personal  ambition,  no  sense  of  exciting  romance. 
But  as  she  was  not  introspective,  she  assumed  that 
other  people  felt  as  she  did.  And  when  she  con- 
tinually discovered  that  they  were  not  self-sacrific- 
ing, that  they  were  impulsive  and  greedy,  she  grew 
infuriated,  and  reviled  and  persecuted  them  because 
they  did  not  live  up  to  the  ideal  character  she  had 
forced  on  them. 

So  the  discussion  was  resumed,  and  everything 
that  had  been  said  twice  was  said  again.  During 
the  next  few  days  it  was  resumed  again  and  again, 
on  a  diminishing  strain  of  anger  and  a  growing  strain 
of  fatalistic  regret. 

"It's  no  good  crying  over  spilled  milk,"  said  Mrs. 
Buhner. 

"Least  said  soonest  mended,"  said  Eleanor. 

"You  can  have  some  of  the  verses  out  of  my  album 
if  you  want  something  for  Zip,"  said  Hettie. 

Bulmer  did  not  suffer  much  from  this  domestic 
convulsion.    He  was  too  preoccupied  with  the  maga- 

112 


%  THE  HIGH  ROAD  % 

zine;  the  advance  orders  for  the  coming  issue  were 
rather  low.  He  was  spending  a  good  deal  of  money 
in  ordering  copies  at  book-stalls,  in  the  hope  that 
this  demand  would  induce  them  to  take  it  in,  but 
evidently  this  was  not  a  success;  in  the  evening  he 
stared  with  hostility  at  the  growing  pile  of  back 
numbers  in  his  bedroom.  Also,  the  small  boys  were 
not  satisfactory.  They  lacked  sense  of  responsi- 
bility, dropped  copies  in  the  mud  and,  when  remon- 
strated with,  deserted  and  began  to  sell  The  Star  or 
The  Sun.  And  two  sandwich-men,  intoxicated  by 
their  sales,  disappeared  with  the  proceeds. 

"Alf,  old  boy,"  said  Bulmer,  one  evening,  "this 
won't  do.  We  can't  get  thirty  shillings  a  week  out 
of  this,  and  the  worry's  bringing  my  weight  down  as 
if  I  was  doing  banting.  We  got  to  expand.  We 
got  to  advertise.     Make  the  thing  known." 

"How  are  we  going  to  do  that  without  capital?" 
asked  Hawes. 

"Oh,  it  wouldn't  need  much.  You  can  get  a  two- 
inch  double-col.  ad.  in  any  paper  for  thirty  shillings. 
Say  six  of  those  in  thirty  papers,  three  days  before 
and  three  days  after  the  issue.     What  about  that?" 

1  ( Well,  what  about  it?  Six  times  thirty's  a  hundred 
and  eighty,  and  six  times  a  hundred  and  eighty  is  over 
a  thousand.    Where's  your  fifteen  hundred  quid?" 

"Oh,  we  needn't  do  it  now.  What  about  making 
a  start  in  a  small  way?  Look  here,  Alf,  I'll  sell  you 
a  half -share  for  .  .  .  for  .  .  .  well,  I  won't  do  that, 
but  what  do  you  say  to  taking  a  debenture  on  the 
paper?  Lend  me  a  hundred  quid  and  I'll  give  you 
six  per  cent,  for  your  money  and  first  call  on  the 
assets  of  the  paper." 

113 


«  CALIBAN  ]B 

"Show  me  the  assets,' '  said  Alf. 

"Oh,  it's  as  safe  as  houses." 

"Well,  I  haven't  got  a  hundred  quid/'  said  Hawes. 
"What  you  want,  Dick,  is  a  mug." 

"Do  you  know  a  mug?  Alf,  if  you  can  make  any- 
body cough  up  five  hundred  quid  I'll  give  you  ten 
per  cent,  commission." 

The  two  young  men  became  thoughtful ;  they  con- 
sidered the  few  rich  men  they  knew.  But  the  days 
went  on;  the  publican  at  Putney  told  Hawes  that 
he'd  lend  him  capital  when  the  clouds  rolled  by. 
Uncle  Hesketh  was  approached,  and  sent  a  letter  of 
four  pages  in  which  he  explained  that  journalism 
was  already  overcrowded.  He  added  a  postscript 
to  say  (quite  gratuitously)  that  he  had  no  influence 
in  breweries  now.  They  thought  of  approaching 
Mr.  Blakeney,  but  Hawes  objected.  "I'm  not  going 
to  be  mixed  up,"  he  said. 

Inspiration  came  to  Bulmer  as  he  was  shaving, 
and  the  feeling  was  so  revolutionary  that  he  went 
over  the  left  side  of  his  face  twice  and  over  the  right 
side  only  once.  All  that  day  he  worked  in  an  ex- 
cited dream.  He  went  up  and  down  Kilburn  High 
Road,  staring  at  the  place  where  he  would  achieve, 
but,  though  he  had  chosen  his  time  carelessly  when 
he  told  the  truth  to  Mrs.  Bulmer,  his  faculties  were 
more  alert  now  that  his  interests  were  involved.  At 
five  minutes  to  seven,  just  before  the  shop  closed, 
he  passed  jauntily  among  the  coffins  and  funeral 
urns.  Mr.  Wartle  immediately  composed  his  ex- 
pression of  cherubic  melancholy  into  one  of  aloof  in- 
difference, tempered  with  interest;  for  it  occurred 
to  him  at  once  that,  after  what  had  happened,  Bul- 

114 


*8  THE  HIGH  ROAD  « 

mer  would  enter  his  shop  only  on  business.  Perhaps 
Mrs.  Bulmer  was  dead. 

"May  I  have  a  word  with  you,  Mr.  Wartle,  after 
you've  closed?"  asked  Bulmer,  detachedly. 

"  Certainly/ '  said  Mr.  Wartle,  and  became  busy 
with  instructions  to  the  men  in  the  back  shop. 
"Now,  then,  how  much  longer  are  you  going  to  be 
about  the  shutters?  Tom,  don't  forget  to  call  for 
the  brass  plates  as  you  come  up  to-morrow  morn- 
ing."  Then  he  stroked  an  oak  lid  and  remarked, 
as  if  to  himself,  "Fine  stuff,  fine  stuff;  best  in  the 
trade.  When  the  men  had  gone  he  turned  toward 
Bulmer;  his  expression  forgave  nothing,  but  invited 
confidence.  He  listened  to  the  end,  and,  as  he  lis- 
tened, his  rancor  receded.  Still,  as  a  matter  of  prin- 
ciple, he  said,  "I  think  it's  all  toinmyrot." 

"Look  here/'  said  Bulmer,  "you're  a  business 
man,  Mr.  Wartle.  You  want  to  make  money,  same 
as  I  do.  I  say  that  if  I've  managed  to  make  this 
thing  pay  without  any  staff,  without  any  offices,  and 
without  any  advertisements,  a  small  sum,  say  a 
thousand,  will  put  it  on  its  feet,  and  pay  Heaven 
knows  what.  Thirty  per  cent.,  fifty  per  cent. — I 
don't  know." 

"I  don't  like  the  way  in  which  you  conduct  your 
paper,"  said  Mr.  Wartle,  memories  of  the  Journal 
regaining  strength.  "I  think  journalism  should  be 
taken  as  a  solemn  responsibility.  The  business  of 
publication  should  not  be  undertaken  lightly,  for 
one  gains  over  the  people  an  influence  which  ought 
to  be  uplifting."  He  went  on  for  a  long  time,  grow- 
ing less  and  less  melancholy  as  he  expounded  the 
ideal  publication,  a  touching  compound  of  Great 

115 


*g  CALIBAN *8 

Thoughts  by  Great  Thinkers.  Bulmer  cleverly  lis- 
tened to  the  end,  then  said:  "  Yes,  I  quite  agree  with 
you.  Only  don't  you  think  popular  taste  is  rather 
low?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Wartle. 

"Then  don't  you  think  it's  your  duty  to  go  slow? 
To  lead  'em  upward,  you  know.  By  starting  on 
their  level,  only  starting,  mind  you.  Besides,"  he 
added,  negligently,  "on  thirty  thousand  copies,  with 
a  good  advertising  manager,  we  ought  to  make  about 
four  or  five  hundred  a  year  net.  Say  fifty  per  cent.; 
say  forty,  to  be  on  the  safe  side." 

After  a  long  pause  Mr.  Wartle  said:  "After  all, 
it  would  be  enough  if  it  was  elevating  in  parts, 
wouldn't  it,  Mr.  Bulmer?  Look  here,  you  and  I 
didn't  always  get  on.  But  I  say,  let  bygones  be 
bygones.  Mind  you,  that  doesn't  mean  that  I  say 
ditto  to  everything  you  do,  but  you  come  along  with 
me  to  a  friend  of  mine.  His  name's  Mr.  Cole.  He's 
in  the  printing  line,  and  he's  got  his  head  screwed  on 
the  right  way.  Festina  lente,  Mr.  Bulmer;  you  know 
what  that  means,  you  being  a  classical  scholar." 

Mr.  Cole  was  a  small  printer  established  near 
Baker  Street  Station,  a  furtive  little  man  with  small 
eyes  and  a  mind  insidious  as  a  gimlet.  He  raised 
difficulties  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  looking  at  them 
sideways,  as  if  this  made  his  vision  more  piercing. 
Nothing  was  done  the  first  evening,  and  for  three 
days  Bulmer  lived  in  agony,  and  for  the  first  time 
knew  insomnia.  On  the  fourth  day  Mr.  Cole  wrote 
that  he'd  have  nothing  to  do  with  his  wildcat 
scheme.  On  the  fifth  Mr.  Wartle  intimated  that 
there  was  still  hope.    On  the  sixth  negotiations  were 

116 


«  THE   HIGH   ROAD  Id 


resumed.  They  broke  down  several  times,  first 
because  Bulmer  wanted  a  salary  of  two  pounds  ten 
a  week,  which  Mr.  Cole  said  was  more  than  the  past 
profits;  when  this  had  been  compromised  for  forty- 
five  shillings  a  week  trouble  arose  over  paper. 

"I  can  get  you  your  paper  pretty  cheap/'  said 
Mr.  Cole. 

"No,  you  don't,"  said  Bulmer.  "I  buy  it  my- 
self." 

' '  Quite  impossible, ' '  said  Mr.  Cole.  ' c  Quite  against 
trade  practice." 

"Very  likely.  I  suppose  it's  also  trade  practice 
to  charge  me  ten  or  fifteen  per  cent,  overhead  costs 
on  that  paper." 

"Naturally,"  said  Mr.  Cole,  with  a  broad  gesture. 
He  was  beaten  in  the  end,  for  Mr.  Wartle  realized 
at  once  that  the  commission  on  paper  would  come 
out  of  his  share  of  profits.  So  Mr.  Cole  compromised 
by  undertaking  to  deliver  the  paper  at  cost,  reserv- 
ing his  right  to  combine  the  paper  order  with  his 
own  orders,  so  as  to  get  a  rebate  on  quantity. 

Then  Mr.  Cole  demanded  the  right  to  insert  ad- 
vertisements of  his  own;  they  compromised  by  giv- 
ing him  half  a  page  with  a  thirty-shilling  rebate  on 
schedule  price. 

Bulmer  and  Mr.  Wartle  shook  hands  outside 
Baker  Street  Station.  Bulmer  thought,  "No  damned 
mind  improvement  in  Zip,"  and  said,  "Mr.  Wartle, 
we'll  be  a  force."  Then,  promptly,  he  walked  away 
toward  the  west;  Zip  was  a  weekly,  a  real  weekly, 
no  wretched  monthly  now.  Three  months'  printing 
credit  at  Mr.  Cole's  .  .  .  five  hundred  quidlets  from 
old  Wartle  to  shove  the  paper,  to  give  it  zip!    He 

117 


•g  CALIBAN  °$ 

smiled   at   the   light   night   sky.     "By   Jove!"    he 
thought,  "  We'll  give  'em  zip."     And  an  immense 
desire  to  shout  aloud  in  Marylebone  Road  filled  him. 
He  would  have  liked,  like  the  newspaper  sellers,  to 
stand  at  the  street  corner  and  shout:    "Zip!  one 
penny!    Extra  special  Zip! "    But  he  couldn't  do  it. 
He  hadn't  even  a  copy  to  sell.     He  wished  Hawes 
were  with  him,  but  Hawes  had  long  left  the  city 
and  would  not  be  at  home.     He'd  be  on  the  razzle 
up  west.    He  wondered  how  they'd  take  it  at  home. 
Five  hundred  pounds!    that  'd  make  mother  sit  up 
and  Ellie  shut  up.    He  looked  about  him,  undecided. 
He  realized  that  his  family  would  not  enjoy  the  news 
as  they  should.    They'd  tell  him  it  was  a  lot  of  money 
and  he'd  have  to  be  careful,  and  other  discouraging 
things.     He  felt  alone  and  rather  miserable,  in  spite 
of  his  delight.     He  told  himself  that  all  men  are  alone 
in  the  world,  just  bits  of  scattered  crowd.     Some- 
times, if  one  was  lucky,  one  came  up  against  another 
bit.     And  then  the  two  bits  joined  up,  and  then 
everything  was  all  right.    He  struggled  for  a  moment 
with  this  mangled  form  of  romantic  idealism,  then 
remembered — somebody  understood  him,  somebody 
cared.     Vi!  why  hadn't  he  thought  of  her?     He  had 
not  seen  her  for  several  weeks.     He'd  taken  her  out 
a  few  times;  they  had  been  to  the  Metropolitan  and 
other-music  halls.    And  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  he 
had  sculled  with  her  from  Hampton  Court  to  Sun- 
bury.     They  had  had  tea  at  the  "  Flowerpot,"  and 
he  had  kissed  her  very  often  on  the  way  to  Sunbury 
Station;  then  forgotten  all  about  her. 

"Fve   been   too   busy,"    he   thought.     Now   he 
wanted  her  intensely.     She  would  know,  she  would 

118 


vq) 


*8  THE  HIGH  ROAD  $ 


understand.  So,  impatiently,  he  ran  to  the  Under- 
ground and  chafed  in  the  smoky,  smutty  atmosphere, 
until  he  reached  Royal  Oak  and  ran  on  to  Cornwall 
Road. 

She  came  down  to  see  him  in  the  passage.  AH 
through  their  dialogue  Buhner  was  conscious  of  the 
landlady,  whose  footsteps  down  the  kitchen  stairs 
numbered  only  five  or  six.  They  must  be  very 
short  kitchen  stairs.  Vi  was,  at  first,  rather  cold, 
because,  when  called  down,  she  had  not  understood 
it  was  a  man  wanted  her.  So  she  was  still  wearing 
her  oldest  bodice. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  come  out  with  you 
for?"  she  asked,  ungraciously. 

"Please,  please,"  said  Buhner.  "I  can't  tell  you 
here,"  and  jerked  his  head  toward  the  kitchen  stairs. 

"Is  it  raining?"  asked  Vi,  still  sulky. 

"No.     Hurry  up." 

They  walked  along  Cornwall  Road,  he  telling  her 
in  one  breathless  sentence  what  had  happened.  As 
he  spoke,  as  the  soft  spring  night  loosened  by  its 
sweetness  the  hard  crust  of  her  disturbance,  Vi  was 
moved  by  the  young  man's  excitement,  by  the  ra- 
pidity of  his  words.  Under  a  lamp-post  she  smiled 
at  him.    He  said,  "Vi,  aren't  you  pleased?" 

"I  think  you're  splendid,"  she  replied.  He  looked 
at  her  for  an  instant,  rejoicing  in  her  blunt,  dark 
features,  in  the  sleepy  eyes  and  the  dark  mouth, 
whose  dewy  fragrance  he  remembered.  Then  he 
took  her  face  between  his  hands  and  said:  "I  knew 
you'd  be  pleased.  You  care.  You  do  care,  don't 
you  .  .  .  and  you  care  for  me  a  bit?  " 

"You  know  I  do,"  said  Vi,  quite  honestly,  and  told 


119 


*$  CALIBAN  *8? 

herself  with  superficial  emotion  that  he  was  a  nice 
boy. 

"Then,"  he  said,  impulsively,  "I  can't  let  you  go. 
I  love  you,  Vi.    Marry  me;  say  you'll  marry  me." 

She  let  him  draw  her  closer,  and  did  not  at  once 
reply.  Her  mind  worked  evenly  enough.  She  was 
good-tempered,  with  a  touch  of  sullenness.  She 
badly  wanted  to  do  what  she  liked,  to  go  to  the 
shops  and  have  bus  rides  in  the  afternoon.  She 
wanted  things;  many  things;  new  buckles,  and 
money  for  chocolates.  She  was  tired  of  upholster- 
ing, tired  of  work  and  being  ordered  about.  She 
thought,  "He'll  get  on."  And,  also,  now  he  was 
kissing  her  bent  neck  and  playing  with  her  hair. 
She  liked  the  touch  of  him,  his  urgency,  his  nimble- 
ness. 

"I  don't  mind,"  she  said,  slowly. 

He  went  home  very  late,  his  mind  feverish.  He 
was  going  to  be  the  editor  of  a  weekly;  he  was  going 
to  marry  the  woman  who  understood  him.  And 
things  were  so  exciting.  There  was  going  to  be  a 
motor-car  race  between  Paris  and  Rouen.  He'd 
have  to  have  something  about  that  in  Zip.  What 
a  wonderful  world  it  was!  And  about  his  lips  still 
clung  the  half-scented,  half-animal  flavor  of  the 
kisses. 


Chapter  VII 
Scissors  and  Paste 

RICHARD  BULMER  sat  back  in  the  editorial 
arm-chair,  of  which  one  leg  was  rather  loose. 
Zip  had  just  gone  to  press,  and  with  a  comfortable, 
fatalistic  sense  that  what  was  done  was  done  Buhner 
surveyed  his  office  and  his  life,  almost  synonyms. 
He  liked  his  little  office,  the  first  floor  of  a  decrepit 
house  in  Featherstone  Buildings.  In  addition  to 
shelves  from  which  flowed  broken  books  and  dirty 
newspapers,  the  small  room  held  three  articles  of 
furniture — the  editorial  table  of  stained  deal,  the  edi- 
torial chair,  and  a  caller's  chair.  Buimer  had  bought 
the  office  furniture  second-hand,  for  three  pounds 
ten.  For  one  moment  he  had  thought  of  dignity 
and  of  mahogany  bookcases  to  house  the  encyclo- 
pedia. Then  he  realized  that  his  capital  would  not 
allow  him  to  live  up  to  this;  so,  instead,  he  prac- 
tised extreme  austerity,  which  was  also  effective. 
Intending  to  miss  no  advantage,  he  erected  a  large 
blackboard  opposite  his  desk,  and  on  it  caused  to 
be  painted: 

WE  DON'T  GO  IN  FOR  SHOW 

WE  GO  IN  FOR 

ZIP 

121 


*g  CALIBAN  *8 

That  would  make  callers  sit  up.  Indeed,  as  he 
went  on,  he  developed  a  growing  taste  for  boards; 
they  became  means  of  self-expression.  One  of  them 
read: 

ZIP  WANTS  NEWS,  NOT  CHESTNUTS 

And  another: 

SAY  IT  IN  FIVE  MINUTES.    YOU  AREN'T 
SHAKESPEARE 

Yes,  it  was  a  bright,  business-like  little  room. 
Bulmer  did  not  mind  its  being  ill  lit,  owing  to  the 
enormous  sign  bearing  the  word  "Zip";  this  partly 
filled  the  window.  He  had  another  sign  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  buildings,  urging  the  public  to  buy  Zip 
for  a  penny  a  week;  this  privilege  he  had  obtained, 
in  exchange  for  a  quarter-page  advertisement,  from 
the  cheap  jeweler  who  owned  the  corner  house. 

Yes,  there  was  some  kick  in  him  yet,  though  after 
eight  weeks  they  were  still  making  a  loss.  He  pon- 
dered over  the  week's  loss;  it  humiliated  him.  It 
was  all  very  well  saying  that  one  had  to  work  one's 
way  up  .  .  .  but,  thought  Bulmer,  why  should  he 
have  to  work  his  way  up  like  other  people?  He 
weakened  a  little  as  he  thought  of  an^  vaguely 
craved  for  support.  He  was  like  a  god  without 
worshipers,  august,  but  a  little  lonely.  Of  course 
nothing  could  be  expected  from  his  mother  and 
sisters.  No,  that  wasn't  fair;  Hettie  was  all  right. 
Bulmer' s  marriage  had  completed  the  estrangement 

begun  by  his  shameful  desertion  of  his  safe  job. 

122 


*g  SCISSORS  AND  PASTE *% 

Eleanor  had  made  a  violent  attempt  to  prevent  the 
marriage;  she  had  raved  about  misalliance  and  asked 
him  whether  he  wasn't  ashamed  of  himself  to  marry 
a  vulgar  working-woman.  Brutally  told  that  she 
was  paid  a  shilling  an  hour  to  teach  kids  how  to 
imitate  on  the  piano  the  cries  of  a  cat  that  has  colic, 
she  attempted  to  move  him  by  representing  how 
hard  this  match  would  be  on  his  family;  how  they 
couldn't  receive  Vi;  how  people  would  wonder  why 
they  didn't;  how  it  would  get  about.  And  hadn't 
he  any  natural  feelings?  Thereupon  Bulmer  grew 
emotional  and,  thus  inflamed,  mentioned  the  word 
"love."  This  word  infuriated  Eleanor,  who  had 
reached  the  age  when  love  is  looked  upon  as  one  of 
the  minor  indecencies  of  life. 

"How  can  you  talk  such  nonsense?  Love!  The 
nonsense  that's  talked  about  love  makes  me  ill. 
Love's  all  very  well,  but  there's  duty  first.  Besides, 
it  doesn't  last." 

"Ellie,  you  talk  of  love  as  if  it  was  an  umbrella." 

"Don't  be  silly.  Oh,  I  know  what  you're  going 
to  say.  I've  heard  all  about  love  pangs  and  looking 
at  the  moon,  and  all  that,  and  all  that  talk  about 
broken  hearts.  But  what  of  it  if  people  do  get 
broken  hearts?  That's  life.  It  isn't  even  as  if  the 
girl  could  be  educated  and  taught  to  behave." 

"You  wouldn't  object  if  she  had  five  thousand  a 
year,"  said  Bulmer,  suddenly. 

"I  think  you're  very  vulgar,"  said  Eleanor. 

Bulmer  saw  that  and  regretted  his  reply.  But 
the  conversation  went  on  and  achieved  no  result. 
He  knew  that  Eleanor  was  telling  the  truth;  love 
had  never  come  to  her,  and  if  it  had  she  would  have 

123 


«  CALIBAN  H 

forgone  it  if  she  thought  it  right  to  do  so.  She  was 
as  hard  as  crystal,  and  as  pure.  One  couldn't  like 
her,  but  one  must  respect  her.  She  thought  always 
cleanly,  and  always  she  thought  wrong.  She  loved 
freedom,  and  yet  rose  up  against  individuality;  she 
believed  in  discretion,  and  pried  into  everybody's 
business;  she  believed  in  doing  good  to  her  fellows, 
and  for  that  good  would  grind  them  under  any 
tyranny. 

So  Eleanor  never  visited  Featherstone  Buildings, 
and  between  her  and  Mrs.  Buhner  there  arose  a 
convention  that  Dick  should  not  be  mentioned.  He 
was  the  shame  of  the  family.  But  though  they  said 
nothing  about  him,  they  suffered  from  their  own 
silence,  for  they  wanted  to  discuss  him  all  the  time. 
As  for  Hettie,  now  thirty-three  and  beginning  to 
realize  that  Verdens  and  Cockings  would  not  come 
again,  she  adopted  her  brother  and  his  wife,  as  if 
some  obscure  and  repressed  maternal  strain  through 
them  found  an  outlet.  Without  telling  her  mother, 
she  helped  to  hang  the  curtains,  lay  the  carpets, 
and  stain  the  floors.  Sometimes,  in  the  afternoon, 
she  would  tell  Mrs.  Bulmer  that  she  was  going  for  a 
walk  to  Queen's  Park,  but  once  round  the  corner 
she  would  catch  the  bus  and  engage  in  long  conver- 
sation with  Vi.  She  liked  to  bring  presents,  small, 
absurd  things,  Goss  china,  or,  in  a  silver  frame,  a 
picture  of  Ellen  Terry  or  Sir  Henry  Irving.  Some- 
times, unobtrusively,  she  would  leave  on  the  window- 
sill  half  a  pound  of  caramels,  or  Bulmer  would  find 
among  his  papers  a  box  of  Three  Castles.  Nettie 
was  happy  with  them;  she  was  past  the  simpering 
stage,  and  now  seemed  quiet  and  effaced.     With 

124 


<%  SCISSORS  AND  PASTE £ 

the  young  couple  she  grew  more  human.  And  one 
afternoon,  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  decayed  guitar, 
she  sang  "  Queen  of  the  May." 

Vi  was  glad  of  Hettie's  society.  Miss  Buhner 
being  a  real  lady,  Vi  felt  extraordinarily  promoted 
by  her  marriage  with  a  man  who'd  been  to  school 
up  to  seventeen.  Also,  she  needed  friends  of  her 
own  sex.  The  girls  from  the  shop,  some  of  whom 
she  still  knew,  seemed  unsuitable.  Their  conversa- 
tion was  not  seemly,  and  though  she  would  gladly 
have,  as  in  the  past,  exchanged  endless  whispers  re- 
garding "what  'e  said  to  me  and  what  I  said  to  'im," 
broken  by  shocked  "not  reelies,"  she  was  conscious 
of  her  new  dignity  and  of  the  fact  that  she  had  all 
her  h's.  The  other  reason  was  that,  Buhner  having 
no  staff,  he  employed  Vi  on  scissors  and  paste. 

Scissors  and  paste!  Vi  began  with  enthusiasm, 
searching  the  day's  papers  and  cutting  out  endless 
facts,  the  cost  of  new  churches,  reminiscences  of  the 
Jubilees,  strange  facts  as  to  long-lived  cats,  but  in  a 
few  weeks  this  became  dull  and  unrewarding.  She 
began  it  to  please  Dick,  for  she  discovered  in  matri- 
mony a  certain  happiness,  a  satisfaction  half  of  the 
senses,  because  she  had  been  virtuous,  and  half  of 
the  mind,  because  she  still  was  vain.  But  to  search 
newspapers,  to  rush  down  to  the  Guildhall  Library 
to  find  out  something,  to  sit  in  dingy  old  police 
courts  waiting  for  human  interest  while  they  brought 
up  dull  thieves,  bred  in  her  a  growing  irritation.  Vi, 
living  in  two  rooms  on  the  second  floor,  had  not 
enough  to  do,  and  so  she  resented  having  to  do  any- 
thing. What  she  wanted  in  marriage  she  obtained 
only  in  part.     She  honestly  wanted  her  young  hus- 

125 


CALIBAN  °% 


band;  his  energetic  touch,  the  unexpected  passionate 
caresses  which  he  thrust  upon  her,  were  always 
stimulating  to  the  slow  brooding  of  her  tempera- 
ment. But  she  had  imagined  another  life;  a  beau- 
tiful life  made  of  gazing  into  the  windows  of  Bourne 
and  Hollings worth,  of  lying  in  bed  reading  "a  nice 
novel/ '  and  of  eating  ices  when  you  liked.  So  scis- 
sors and  paste,  clicky  and  sticky,  maddened  her. 
As  if  seeking  revenge  she  came  down  to  work  in  the 
morning,  at  first  with  untidy  hair,  later  with  an  ill- 
washed  face. 

Buhner  hardly  noticed.  He  was  not  unhappy. 
He  had  wanted  Vi,  partly  in  a  physical  gush  of  emo- 
tion, partly  because  her  flattery  responded  to  his  need 
for  praise,  partly  because  one  had  to  have  a  woman 
about.  And  so,  when  he  thought  of  her,  he  caressed 
her,  petted  her,  bullied  her,  insulted  her,  and  much 
more  often  forgot  all  about  her.  They  seldom  quar- 
reled; sometimes,  when  Zip  had  gone  to  press  and  they 
went  across  to  the  Holborn  Music  Hall,  Bulmer,  in 
a  blue  suit  that  fitted  well  his  slim  figure,  and  Vi  in 
a  bodice  with  a  high  neck,  a  constricted  waist,  and 
enormous  gigot  sleeves,  they  laughed  and  were  happy 
like  children.  Also,  most  of  the  turns  gave  Bulmer 
ideas  for  Zip,  and,  before  the  show  was  done,  his 
program  was  crowded  with  notes.  For  note-taking 
was  becoming  in  Bulmer  a  passion.  He  joyfully 
realized  that  everything  was  iDteresting.  As  he 
put  it  once,  "Life  is  copy."  Even  his  wedding  was 
copy;  they  were  married  in  church,  though  Bulmer 
had  for  some  years  emancipated  himself  from  the 
thrall  of  church-going.  Mr.  Wartle,  being  a  ration- 
alist, suggested  a  registry  office,  but  Bulmer  was  not 

126 


<$  SCISSORS  AND  PASTE TB 

interested;  he  felt  that  religion  was  not  copy.  As 
they  were  married  in  Vi's  parish,  he  came  in  touch 
with  a  new  curate,  and  was  impressed  by  his  beauti- 
ful intonation.  This  resulted  in  an  interview  in  the 
vestry  and  later  in  an  article  (unpaid)  by  the  curate 
on  "  How  the  Clergy  Are  Taught  Elocution."  Later 
it  produced  an  interesting  correspondence  started  by 
Mr.  Wartle,  on  "How  the  Clergy  Are  Not  Taught 
Elocution."  Also,  the  curate  contributed  various 
other  articles  on  strange  weddings  he  had  known, 
and  the  comic  side  of  sermons.  As  he  was  a  popu- 
lar cleric  a  good  many  copies  of  Zip  were  sold  in  his 
parish. 

Yet  the  paper  was  not  going  very  well,  for  every 
week  yielded  a  loss  of  anything  between  twelve  and 
twenty-five  pounds.  It  was  not  that  the  paper  could 
not  pay  its  way;  it  could,  for  it  gave  its  chance  con- 
tributors very  little,  and  its  circulation  was  slowly 
increasing;  but  the  more  the  circulation  went  up 
the  more  Buhner  spent  on  advertisements,  small 
spaces  in  the  daily  papers,  placards  carefully  dis- 
tributed on  the  hoardings.  So  the  circulation  went 
up,  and  the  expenses  went  up,  and  the  revenue 
stayed  where  it  was,  until  at  last  Mr.  Cole  rebelled. 
This  produced  a  decisive  interview  in  Featherstone 
Buildings. 

"Look  here,"  said  Bulmer,  "am  I  the  editor  or 
you?" 

"I'm  not  talking  about  that.  I'm  talking  about 
the  loss  we're  making,  and  about  my  bill  for  printing 
and  paper.     We're  spending  too  much." 

Bulmer  looked  at  him  sideways  for  a  moment, 
and  they  measured  each  other,  both  looking  side- 

127 


*»  CALIBAN  « 

ways;  then  Buhner's  mind  conceived  a  terrific  bluff, 
and  said: 

"By  the  way,  I've  had  the  paper  costed  by  a 
printer.    You're  damn  dear,  Mr.  Cole." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  spluttered  Mr.  Cole. 

"Oh,  nothing.  Only  I  find  there's  a  printer  who'll 
take  on  the  paper  for  one  pound  eight  a  thousand 
less  than  you  do." 

"Never  heard  such  insolence,"  shouted  Mr.  Cole, 
losing  his  wisdom.  "You  talk  as  if  you  could  do  as 
you  like.  Don't  forget  that  you  owe  me  about  two 
fifty  pounds.  Besides,"  he  grew  hot  because  he 
knew  that  Bulmer  was  right  and  that  his  price  was 
excessive.     "I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

"Ha,  ha,"  said  Buhner,  sardonically. 

"Not  a  word  of  it.  I'm  printing  your  paper  at  a 
loss.  If  you  want  to  prove  it,  give  me  the  name  of 
your  printer." 

"Ah!"  said  Bulmer,  leaning  forward  with  twink- 
ling eyes.  "Wouldn't  you  like  to  know!  Wouldn't 
you  like  to  have  the  paper  printed  by  him  on  sub- 
contract and  charge  Zip  your  ordinary  price,  scoop- 
ing the  difference!" 

Mr.  Cole  paused  for  a  moment,  very  red,  and  said : 

"I  don't  want  to  bandy  words  with  you.  If  \^ou 
don't  pay  up  in  a  week  or  two  I'll  bankrupt  you." 

"Bankrupt  me,"  said  Bulmer.     "Dear  Mr.  Cole, 

do  bankrupt  me.    You  won't  get  your  money  back 

out  of  the  good  will  of  Zip.     It  isn't  worth  twopence. 

Oh,  do  bankrupt  me;    this  furniture  '11  fetch  two 

pounds  ten;   that  won't  help  you  much.     Come  on, 

Mr.  Cole,  there's  nothing  to  be  done.     I've  laid  this 

eggj  y°u  must  let  me  sit  on  it." 

128 


*8  SCISSORS  AND  PASTE  *$ 

Finally  Mr.  Cole  departed,  routed,  and  realizing 
that  the  only  way  to  get  his  money  back  was  to  put 
more  in.  Bulmer  found  the  incident  delightful,  and 
thus  discovered  a  new  weapon  against  Mr.  Wartle 
as  well  as  Mr.  Cole.  So  long  as  they  could  get  their 
money  back  there  was  a  chance  that  they  would  sell 
him  up,  but  if  only  he  spent  enough  to  keep  the 
property  hovering  round  bankruptcy,  yet  with  a 
rising  circulation,  they  would  follow  success  as 
Ulysses  followed  Ithaca.  He  soon  had  to  use  this 
weapon  again  in  a  ferocious  interview  with  Mr. 
Wartle,  whose  valuable  outside  cover  advertisement 
he  sold  to  a  condensed- milk  merchant;  he  relegated 
the  funeral  furnishings  to  an  ignoble  position.  Mr. 
Wartle  came  down  angry,  and  was  so  completely 
crushed  by  threats  of  immediate  bankruptcy  thab 
Bulmer  counter-attacked,  and  pointed  out  that  he 
could  not  be  editor,  publisher,  and  advertising  man- 
ager any  more,  and  that  unless  his  salary  was  im- 
mediately raised  to  three  pounds,  and  unless  Alf 
Hawes  could  be  brought  in  as  assistant  editor,  he 
would  break  up. 

"Break  up,"  said  Bulmer,  tragically.  "It  won't 
break  me,  Mr.  Wrartle;  I've  got  no  financial  bones 
to  break.  But  it  '11  break  you  and  Mr.  Cole.  Now 
then,  yes  or  no;  it  '11  only  cost  you  a  hundred  a 
year  or  so." 

Mr.  Wartle,  terrified,  agreed,  and  then  again  for 
several  weeks  Zip  struggled.  Every  time  Mr.  Wrar- 
tle saw  a  placard  recommending  this  blood-sucking 
paper  he  shuddered.  And  Mrs.  Wartle,  who,  of 
course,  had  been  against  the  investment,  every  night 
in  bed  reminded  him  that  she'd  told  him  so. 

129 


*g  CALIBAN  *8 

Then  one  day  success  happened.  Bulmer  and 
Hawes  were  going  over  the  Daily  News,  where  they 
found  an  account  of  a  peculiarly  atrocious  series  of 
murders  by  a  man  called  Machen.  Machen  had 
been  arrested  the  night  before,  and  was  charged  with 
having  murdered  his  wife  and  three  children  by  slow 
poisoning.  He  had  escaped  for  a  long  time  because, 
being  a  chemist  in  Muswell  Hill,  and  fairly  expert, 
he  had  used  an  organic  compound  refractory  to  re- 
agents, and  had  been  subtle  enough  to  vary  its  use 
in  such  a  way  as  to  kill  his  wife  and  first  child,  giv- 
ing their  deaths  the  appearance  of  blood-poisoning, 
while  the  second  child  ostensibly  died  of  heart 
failure.  If  he  had  not  bungled  by  overdosing  the 
youngest  child,  as  a  result  of  which  a  certain  quan- 
tity of  unassimilated  drug  was  found  in  the  body, 
he  would  never  have  been  detected. 

"He's  a  cute  un,"  said  Hawes.  "My!  he  could 
do  us  some  popular  chemistry  for  Zip  if  we  could 
get  hold  of  him." 

"Get  hold  of  him!"  cried  Bulmer,  and  fell  into 
the  meditative  state  which  overcame  him  at  times 
of  inspiration.  "Get  hold  of  him!  I  wonder  if  we 
could." 

"No  go,"  said  Hawes.  "No  good  going  round  to 
Scotland  Yard  and  tipping  the  sergeant.  Besides, 
he's  at  Wormwood  Scrubs." 

"Alf,"  said  Bulmer,  "you're  wrong.  One  can  get 
hold  of  him.  One  can  get  hold  of  the  Grand  Lama 
of  Tibet  if  one  likes.  It's  only  a  matter  of  finding 
out  how." 

"Well,  what's  your  little  game?"  asked  Hawes. 

Bulmer  did  not  reply,  but,  sitting  down,  handled 

130 


«QJ 


*8  SCISSORS  AND  PASTE  ]g 

the  difficulty  in  his  customary  way,  by  putting  down 
at  random  every  idea  that  came  into  his  head  and 
then  eliminating  the  worthless.  An  hour  later  he 
got  up  and  put  on  his  hat. 

" Where  are  you  off  to?"  asked  Hawes,  looking  up 
from  an  outspread  collection  of  Whitakers. 

"Oh,  I'm  off  to  see  Machen." 

"What?"  shouted  Hawes,  jumping  up;  but  Bul- 
mer  was  gone,  and  it  was  not  until  the  article  ap- 
peared in  Zip  that  Buhner  told  him  the  story.  It 
was  quite  simple.  Obviously,  at  this  early  stage, 
Machen  could  not  yet  have  briefed  a  barrister.  Bul- 
mer  went  round  the  corner  into  Red  Lion  Street,  en- 
gaged a  solicitor  on  behalf  of  Machen,  paid  him  thirty 
pounds  down  as  an  advance  on  costs.  On  the  way 
to  Wormwood  Scrubs  the  solicitor  picked  up  a  young 
barrister  who  had  just  been  called,  and  who  accepted 
the  brief  for  the  sake  of  the  advertisement.  The 
three  presented  themselves  at  Wormwood  Scrubs, 
produced  their  cards.  After  some  hesitation  they 
were  allowed  access  to  the  criminal,  because  Machen, 
when  asked  whether  these  people  were  in  charge  of 
his  defense,  reflected  that,  as  nobody  was  and  he  had 
no  money,  well,  they  might  as  well  be. 

So  the  next  issue  of  Zip  detonated  like  a  shell. 

"Old  cock,"  said  Buhner,  "we've  got  to  put  our 
shirt  on  this."  And  Zip  did  put  its  shirt  on  it.  On 
the  eve  of  the  issue  eighty  pounds'  worth  of  space 
was  taken  in  the  newspapers;  Mr.  Cole  was  bullied 
into  printing  thirty  thousand  posters  and  paying  the 
bill-posting  company.  And  the  center  of  London 
was  invaded  by  strings  of  sandwichmen  carrying  this 
board: 

131 


**  CALIBAN  *% 

MY  LIFE 

By  Will  Machen 

See  To-day's  Zip 

Mr.  Cole,  fortunately,  understood  what  this  meant, 
and  he  also  put  his  shirt  on  it.  They  were  right: 
the  circulation  leaped  up  from  eighteen  thousand  to 
a  hundred  and  seven  thousand.  Almost  at  once 
commercial  firms  began  to  offer  advertisements, 
while  Bulmer  no  longer  waited  outside  the  adver- 
tising office,  but  went  straight  in  and  booked  half- 
pages.  The  issue  following  the  Machen  case  carried 
seventy  pounds'  worth  of  advertisements,  and  the 
next  one  rather  over  a  hundred  pounds.  For  Machen 
was  not  a  wasting  asset,  and  Zip  came  to  deserve 
the  insulting  reference  made  in  a  rival  publication, 
who  called  it  "The  Machen  News."  For,  following 
on  Machen' s  story  came  a  series  of  articles  on  drugs 
and  poisons,  their  history  and  effects;  there  were 
columns  of  opinions  on  poisons  by  doctors,  chem- 
ists, divines,  retired  colonels,  and  professors  of  dan- 
cing. There  was  even  an  opinion  from  the  manager 
of  a  tobacco  company,  which  was  inserted  only  after 
he  promised  to  give  an  advertisement.  Then  Zip 
went  on  to  poison  fiends  and  the  underworld  of 
London. 

"Well,  Alf,"  said  Bulmer,  "we've  done  it.  Now 
we've  only  got  to  go  on." 

And  they  did  go  on;  fortunately  crime  was  abun- 
dant that  year.  Now  Zip  stood  every  week  as  the 
friend  of  the  misunderstood  burglar  or  of  the  forger 
who  had  seen  better  days.  Their  greatest  scoop 
was  a  parson  charged  with  racing  frauds. 

132 


^Q3 


Sf  SCISSORS  AND   PASTE  *$ 

" Almost  too  good  to  be  true,"  said  Bulmer. 
1  i  Religion  and  horses ! " 

Then  Vi  told  her  husband  that  she  was  about  to 
have  a  child.  He  was  genuinely  glad,  and  kissed  her 
affectionately.     Then  he  said: 

"That  reminds  me;  we  ought  to  have  something 
called  'Our  Babies'  Corner'!  I  say,  you'll  have  to 
learn  a  bit  about  babies  now.  While  you're  looking 
it  up  you  might  write  us  a  few  pars  for  the  paper. 
Alf  '11  lick  'em  into  shape." 


Chapter  VIII 
Hampstead 

IF  Buhner  had  been  analytical  he  would  have  seen 
that  Vi  had  not  enough  to  do.  But  he  did  not 
analyze;  he  registered,  and  while  he  would  have 
noted  a  fact  in  a  woman's  life,  he  could  not  note  a 
void.  Occasionally  he  noticed  that  Vi's  brooding, 
which  in  the  beginning  took  the  shape  of  an  agree- 
ably sensual  sullenness,  had  turned  into  sulky  silence, 
broken  by  occasional  fits  of  bad  temper.  When  the 
child  was  born,  and  a  few  hours  later  died,  he  was 
unhappy.  Not  that  he  loved  in  advance  this  un- 
known baby,  or  felt  pride  in  fatherhood,  nor  even 
that  he  mourned  because  Vi  wept:  the  death  of  his 
baby  appeared  to  him  a  sort  of  failure;  a  creature 
born  of  him  should  have  had  more  vitality.  And 
there  had  been  such  a  lot  of  fuss  for  nothiDg;  all  the 
special  feeding  for  his  wife,  and  the  expense  of  the 
nurse  and  doctor.  He  felt  that,  after  all,  the 
least  Nature  could  do  was  to  let  him  have  the  baby. 
Vi  was  very  unhappy  because,  feeling  idle,  she 
had  looked  forward  to  the  baby.  It  was  going  to 
be  a  doll.  Sometimes  in  her  dreams  it  was  a  boy; 
it  grew  up,  and  played  cricket,  and  fought  other 
boys,  and  won,  and  went  to  the  university  and  wore 
a  tail-coat  and  a  top-hat;   then  it  took  her  out  to 

134 


*8  HAMPSTEAD  % 

tea  at  Mrs.  Robertson's,  in  Bond  Street,  where  the 
swells  went.     Or  it  was  a  girl,  and  it  wore  stiff- 
starched  white  frocks,  sticking  out  like  the  skirts  of 
a  ballet  dancer;   and  of  course  it  had  fair  hair  and 
wore  a  blue  sash  (being  dark,  she  admired  fair  peo- 
ple).   And  her  daughter  grew  up,  and  didn't  go  to 
any  of  those  rowdy  boarding-schools  she'd  heard  of; 
she  stayed  at  home  and  learned  French  from  a 
governess,  and  married  a  baronet.     So,  when  the 
baby  died,  she  cried  at  intervals  for  two  days,  and 
her  husband  tried  to  comfort  her  by  telling  her  she'd 
have  another  baby.    He  did  not  understand  that  it 
would  not  be  the  same  baby,  and  that  she  would 
want  a  new  set  of  dreams.     And  when  once  more  Vi 
went  about  still  she  found  no  substitute  for  real 
occupation.    There  was  hardly  anything  to  do  in  the 
two  rooms  at  Featherstone  Buildings.    What  there 
was  to  do — namely,  a  little  dusting — she  only  half 
did,  for  she  hated  housework,  and  her  husband  had 
other  things  to  think  of;   when  his  desk  was  dusty 
he  blew.    Moreover,  the  coming  of  Hawes,  and  the 
development  of  Zip  into  a  weekly,  with  two  clerks, 
had  stolen  from  her  the  once  hateful  thrall  of  scissors 
and  paste.    She  had  absolutely  nothing  to  do  except 
look  into  shops  where  she  could  not  buy.     So  it 
occurred  to  her  that  if  only  she  had  more  money, 
she  could  shop.     And  Vi  passionately  wanted  to 
shop,   to  buy  stays,   remnants,   shop-soiled  boots, 
bangles,  packets  of  hair-pins — anything,  just  to  buy 
something.    It  was  this  new  mood  caused  her  sud- 
denly to  attack  her  husband  and  point  out  to  him 
that  he  wasn't  getting  enough  money.     Bulmer  lis- 
tened with  interest,  for  the  idea  had  not  struck  him. 
10  135 


]g  CALIBAN  *g 

When  the  Zip  boom  came  the  boom  had  been  its 
own  reward.  He  had  spent  his  time  in  a  fury  of 
creation,  had  joyfully  expended  his  energy,  giving 
himself  to  the  thing  he  was  making  in  an  exal- 
tation almost  spiritual.  He  was  abashed  before  the 
shrine  of  Zip;  he  was  ready  to  decorate  it  with  rare 
flowers,  rich  scents,  and  candlesticks  of  gold.  His 
soul  exhaled  itself.  Zip  was  august  and  beautiful, 
for  every  \Feek  its  circulation  was  going  up. 

So,  at  first  he  took  Vi's  remarks  as  in  rather  bad 
taste.  He  looked  at  her  dark  face  as  if  he  disliked 
her,  as  if  she  had  said  something  unseemly. 

"  We'll  see  about  that  when  the  paper's  doing 
really  well,"  he  grumbled. 

Vi  argued  for  a  long  time,  pointing  out  that  he 
was  wearing  himself  to  a  shred  for  Wartle  and  Cole. 
Why  shouldn't  they  be  comfortable?  Why  should 
those  two  get  all  the  profits?  He  remained  uninter- 
ested, but  at  last  Vi  fluked  on  an  argument.    She  said  : 

"It's  all  very  well,  but  if  you  don't  make  more 
we'll  never  have  any  money  behind  us." 

"Oh,  we'll  get  along  somehow." 

"What  about  when  we're  old?  What  about  it  if 
you  want  to  start  a  paper  of  your  own?  " 

Buhner  lurched  forward  in  his  chair,  staring  at 

her,  and  for  a  moment  saw  her  no  more.     Those 

chance  words  had  liberated  within  him  the  spirit  of 

the  unborn  which  insists  upon  living.     He  had  a 

sudden  vision  of  his  own  paper,  without  irritating 

partners.     And  another  paper.     And  another.     In 

swimming  dizziness  he  visioned  a  world  where  every 

town  would  take  in  one  of  his  papers,  something  of 

himself.    And  with  immense  benevolence  he  aspired 

136 


^  HAMPSTEAD  *£ 

to  this  power.  He  would  give  them  radiant  papers, 
full  of  humor,  to  make  them  laugh  when  they  were 
unhappy,  to  teach  them  if  they  were  ignorant,  to 
array  them  for  the  things  he  thought  vigorous  and 
right.  It  was  ecstatic ;  the  world  was  his;  he  might 
give  himself  to  the  world. 

He  shook  free  from  the  dream  and,  saying,  "Til 
see  about  it,"  left  the  room.  That  same  evening, 
having  sent  a  peremptory  message  to  Mr.  Wartle 
to  meet  him  at  Mr.  Cole's  office,  he  presented  an 
ultimatum  in  a  single  sentence: 

"  You  give  me  a  half -share  in  Zip,  a  full  half -share 
in  the  capital,  mind  you,  or  I  give  you  my  week's 
notice  now." 

There  was  very  little  argument.  The  older  men 
had,  for  some  months,  lost  their  suspicions  of  Bul- 
mer's  methods.  They  no  longer  doubted  the  young 
man.  They  still  grudged  the  money  he  ruthlessly 
spent  in  advertisements;  at  bottom  they  would 
rather  have  Zip  jog  along,  making  a  thousand  a 
year,  than  prancing  and  raging,  making  a  thousand 
a  year  all  the  same,  but  making  it  in  such  an  explo- 
sive way.  They  would  rather  have  made  a  little 
less  than  take  money  from  an  organization  whose 
floor  they  could  feel  quiver.  They  put  up  a  vague 
resistance.    Mr.  Cole  said: 

"Preposterous!" 

Mr.  Wartle  said  they  could  get  somebody  else. 
Buhner  replied: 

"I  will  give  you  the  evening  to  think  it  over. 

That  '11  give  you  time  to  find  another  man.     Take 

it  on  yourself,  Wartle.    Give  'em  great  thinkers  at 

a  penny  a  week.    And,  mind  you,  I  want  a  reply 

137 


°%  CALIBAN  *8 

to-morrow  morning,  first  post,  so  don't  forget  they 
clear  the  pillar  at  twelve." 

The  letter  of  surrender  did  not  surprise  him;  nor 
was  he  very  pleased.  He  was  now  sure  of  six  hun- 
dred a  year.  Well,  that  was  all  right.  Now  let  him 
get  on  with  the  job.  In  the  course  of  this  getting 
on,  he  moved.  Not  that  he  had  any  ambition  to 
attain  the  genteel  life,  but  Featherstone  Buildings 
was  becoming  too  small.  He  had  acquired  the  attic 
as  a  storeroom,  and  persuaded  the  dealer  in  artificial 
limbs,  who  occupied  the  ground  floor  and  basement, 
to  vacate  his  premises;  this  cost  him  several  free 
advertisements.  Now  he  wanted  the  living-rooms, 
too.  He  decided  they  must  live  somewhere,  and 
so,  quite  suddenly,  Vi  attained  one  of  her  dreams, 
as  if  by  the  side  wind  of  a  magician's  wand:  she  was 
given  a  new  villa  in  Laburnum  Gardens,  on  the 
southern  edge  of  Hampstead;  so  new  that  all  the 
doors  stuck  and  the  box  in  the  front  garden  was 
only  a  foot  high.  A  hurried  afternoon,  and  the  hire 
purchase  system  produced  a  dining-room  suite  of 
fumed  oak,  to  which  the  salesman  added  sporting 
prints  and  a  little  Venetian  glass  for  the  over-mantel. 
They  had  imitation  Sheraton  for  the  drawing-room, 
and  a  wonderful  bathroom,  hot  and  cold.  She  was 
very  happy;  she  had  a  bedroom  with  cerise  curtains, 
and  a  lovely  settee.  Vi  said  that  when  you  sank 
down  on  it  you  felt  you  were  going  to  heaven.  She 
thought  it  most  unrefined  when  Bulmer  told  her 
that  heaven  wasn't  in  that  direction.  Then  she 
had  a  servant;  it  was  lovely.  She  used  to  lean  over 
the  stairs  sometimes  to  watch  her  maid  polish  the 
linoleum  in  the  hall.    Vi  was  not  keeping  watch  over 

138 


•g  HAMPSTEAD °% 

her  servant,  but  she  enjoyed  seeing  her  work.  And 
sometimes  she  held  up  her  finger-nails,  which  now 
she  polished.  They  were  getting  long  and  rosy,  the 
finger-nails  of  her  new  class. 

Bulmer  was  less  fortunate,  for  his  household  gave 
him  no  special  pleasure.  It  was  the  right  kind  of 
dormitory  for  a  man  of  his  position.  Indeed,  it  was 
a  vague  nuisance,  because  it  was  a  long  way  from 
the  office;  it  meant  only  living,  while  Featherstone 
Buildings  meant  life.  He  was  only  beginning  to  be 
touched  by  the  joy  of  buying,  which  he  was  later  to 
know.  Beyond  some  prints  after  Cecil  Aldin,  some 
hideous  reproductions  of  Rowlandson,  and  repro- 
ductions of  Doctor  Syntax's  Tour,  he  bought  few 
pictures.  Emotionally  he  was  seduced  by  a  carved 
Indian  brass  bowl  or  an  elephant's  tusk  turned  into 
a  paper-knife.  But  in  the  main  he  tried  to  save 
money;  for  Vi's  remarks  had  germinated  in  his 
mind;  now  he  wanted  money  avariciously,  as  a 
vague  symbol  of  power. 

Bradley  had  something  to  do  with  this  fructifica- 
tion. He  met  the  man  one  night  on  the  Embank- 
ment, along  which  he  was  pacing  for  no  particular 
reason  except  that  it  was  an  unfamiliar  place.  He 
fell  over  Bradley's  feet  in  the  dark.  In  reply  to 
his  apology  the  man  said  to  him,  in  an  unexpectedly 
cultivated  voice: 

"Don't  apologize,  my  dear  chap.  As  dear  old 
Milton  says,  more  or  less,  'With  head,  hands,  wings, 
or  feet,  pursue  your  way!' " 

Bulmer  looked  at  him  with  interest.  He  didn't 
read  Milton  himself,  but  still,  everybody'd  heard  of 
Milton.    This  was  damned  interesting.     So  he  said : 

139 


°S  CALIBAN 


"Milton,  eh?    You  sound  like  an  educated  man." 

"I  am,"  said  the  man,  lazily.  "It's  almost  a 
commonplace  to  tell  you  that  I  went  to  Cambridge. 
Nearly  all  the  sandwich-men  in  London  have  been 
to  Cambridge — it's  a  Cambridge  tradition — and  all 
the  tramps  on  the  Embankment,  too." 

Bulmer  looked  at  him,  rather  excited.  This  was 
a  real  case,  and  no  kid  about  it,  either.  One  only 
had  to  see  this  long  shape,  with  the  good,  dissipated 
features,  and  the  insolent  mouth  in  the  half -grizzled 
beard. 

"How  did  you  come  to  this?"  asked  Bulmer, 
sitting  down  by  his  side. 

The  man  smiled.  "I  shall  have  to  make  a  charge 
for  this,"  he  said. 

"All  right,"  said  Bulmer,  taking  out  half  a  sover- 
eign, "tell  me  your  story." 

"Oh,  it's  pretty  short.  I  drank.  I  still  do  when 
I  can  afford  it.  I  gambled.  And  I  still  do  when  I 
can  find  some  one  who  doesn't  understand  the  game. 
I  went  in  for  women.  And  I  still  do  when  I  meet 
a  poor  thing  to  whom  I  can  tell  the  tale." 

Bulmer  felt  that  this  was  not  satisfactory  copy, 
and  by  degrees  extracted  the  story.  Bradley,  when 
an  orphan  at  Cambridge,  had  spent  his  capital  before 
he  came  down.  He  had  been  helped  several  times 
by  his  family,  then  cast  off. 

"They  sent  me  to  the  colonies,"  he  said,  "but  I 
came  back.  Better  an  hour  in  the  shade  of  the  Cecil 
than  a  cycle  of  Cathay." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"Oh,  anything  or  anybody.  Sold  matches,  news- 
papers, boot-laces;  ran  after  cabs  and  their  luggage 


140 


*%  HAMPSTEAD  "8 

when  I  felt  fit;  opened  carriage  doors  outside  the 
theaters;  or  stood  outside  pubs  and  sang  songs.' ' 

"Look  here/'  said  Bulmer,  "do  you  want  to  make 
five  pounds?  " 

The  man  smiled.  "So  long  as  you  don't  offer  me 
a  respectable  living,  I'm  on." 

"Well,  write  me  three  articles  on  the  story  of  your 
life,  and  go  gently  about  the  women.  Talk  a  lot 
about  your  excesses;  that  '11  tickle  up  my  readers' 
imagination.  But  don't  say  what  you  did,  because 
then  they'd  feel  they  ought  to  be  shocked.  And, 
by  the  way,  just  stick  in  something  about  the  poor 
girl  whom  you  lured  away  from  home,  in  your  first 
article,  and  work  her  in  as  a  lost  ideal  in  the  next 
two  articles.  Then  end  up  the  last  one  with  some- 
thing about  the  pure  dreams  of  youth  and  a  better 
world,  or  I'll  lick  it  up  for  you  if  you  can't  do  it." 

Bradley  proved  an  excellent  speculation,  except 
that  his  career  had  to  be  clipped  in  parts.  Indeed, 
he  proved  so  moving  that  the  first  article  brought 
eight  pounds  from  charitable  persons,  and  the  second 
one  an  envelope  about  which  Bradley  affected  vanity 
and  coyness. 

"She  wants  to  reform  me,"  he  whispered.  "Says 
she's  forty-one,  ahem  .  .  .  thirty-one,  and  her  hus- 
band, who  was  a  brewer,  died  some  years  ago.  Well, 
well,  if  she  still  runs  the  brewery  we  might  be 
friends." 

Bulmer  forgot  all  about  him  when  the  articles 
were  done.  His  public  had  had  enough  underworld, 
and  he  was  now  running  a  series  on  "Smart  Society 
Seen  from  the  Pantry."  Besides,  he  was  excited  by 
current  events,  for  he  was  one  of  the  first  members 

141 


V     CALIBAN **? 

of  the  Automobile  Club,  and  joined,  through  a 
friend,  in  the  motor-car  procession  from  London  to 
Brighton.  And  he  suddenly  realized  his  ambition 
to  own  his  own  paper  by  forming  The  Talebearer,  a 
monthly  all-story  magazine,  for  which  Hawes  and 
his  assistant,  Annan,  were  struggling  to  obtain  love- 
stories  which  would  be  vicious  in  environment  and 
pure  in  spirit.  The  Talebearer  was  his  own,  but  it 
disappointed  him,  though  at  once  it  went  fairly  well. 
At  bottom,  Bulmer  disliked  fiction;  he  thought 
life  too  interesting  and  varied  to  make  it  worth 
while  to  bother  about  stories.  He  preferred  his  new 
weekly,  Snappy  Bits,  which  was  Zip  in  another  form, 
in  that  it  was  less  informative  and  dealt  mainly  in 
jokes,  personalia,  and  gossip  on  the  edge  of  libel. 
Snappy  Bits,  in  that  feverish  year,  had  much  to  do 
with  the  advancement  of  the  cycle  boom,  and  one 
of  the  supplements — a  paper  pattern  of  bloomers — 
brought  in  an  unexpected  feminine  public,  as  if  the 
revolutionary  'nineties  had  been  waiting  for  some 
insurgent  lead. 

But,  at  the  time,  Bulmer  felt  understaffed  and 
overworked.  In  spite  of  the  insatiable  greed  of  the 
public  for  statements  of  facts  compressed  into  para- 
graphs and  made  obvious  to  the  board-school  stand- 
ard, he  saw  that  there  must  be  a  limit  to  novelty, 
and  he  did  not  yet  understand  that  the  public 
believes  nothing,  understands  nothing,  probably 
likes  nothing;  that  it  swallows  its  publications  as 
it  does  chlorodyne  for  the  stomach-ache,  in  its  wish 
to  relieve  that  terrible  pain,  a  mind  inactive  as  a 
starfish. 

In  those  days  he  violently  sought  novelty,  and  this 

142 


*g  HAMPSTEAD  11 

produced  an  irritable  habit.  He  left  the  editing  to 
Hawes  and  Annan.  He  himself  was  out  all  day 
trying  to  buy  cheap  paper,  to  capture  advertisement 
contracts,  or  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  traffic  in 
Piccadilly  Circus,  hunting  the  idea  that  must  be 
found  every  week  and  cast  as  a  straw  to  be  whirled 
away  into  the  intellectual  drains  of  the  people.  It 
was  this  habit  procured  the  dismissal  of  Hawes. 
One  week  Bulmer  let  Zip  go  to  press  without  seeing 
the  final  proofs.  When  the  wet  issue  reached  him 
rage  invaded  him,  his  blood  rushed  into  his  ears  till 
they  sang.     He  ran  into  the  back  room  and  roared: 

"How  dare  you  produce  such  a  paper?  What  the 
devil  do  you  think  you're  playing  at?  Didn't  I  tell 
you  to  get  a  feature  article  on  the  Lumiere  show  of 
that  new  thing,  the  Kinema?  What  the  devil  do 
you  mean  by  dropping  it  out?" 

"I  couldn't  find  anybody  to  .  .  ." 

"What  the  hell's  that  got  to  do  with  it?  Why 
didn't  you  write  it  yourself?  Now  you've  dropped 
it  out,  and  I'll  bet  anything  somebody  '11  get  in 
before  us.  Suppose  you  thought  you'd  do  it  next 
week.  Well,  I'll  tell  you  this,  Zip  isn't  going  to  be 
a  rehash  of  other  people's  leavings." 

Hawes  grew  conscious  of  Annan,  and  felt  that  he 
must  assert  himself.  "Look  here,"  he  said,  "I 
won't  be  spoken  to  like  this." 

"No,  you  won't,"  shouted  Bulmer,  "not  after 
next  week.  You  can  take  your  notice  as  from 
to-day." 

He  left  the  room,  and,  a  little  later,  when  he  was 
cool,  a  certain  sorrow  fell  over  him.  He  had  known 
Hawes  for  nine  years  in  the  City  and  up  west.     And 

143 


*g  CALIBAN  °£ 

poor  old  Alf  had  helped  him  not  only  in  the  first 
numbers,  but  even  as  far  back  as  the  days  of  the 
silly  journal  of  that  silly  society  in  Kilburn.  He 
felt  inclined  to  apologize,  to  give  Alf  another  chance, 
but  an  imperious  instinct  struggled  within  him;  it 
was  no  use  blinking  at  it;  Hawes  had  gone  stale. 
He'd  noticed  it  before.  Two  weeks  running,  in 
Snappy  Bits,  they'd  had  a  joke  introducing  traffic 
blocks  in  Piccadilly.  And  he's  harped  on  bloomers. 
He  was  repeating  himself.  Then,  again,  he  thought 
of  his  old  friend,  and,  in  a  sort  of  despair,  held  out 
an  arm  to  the  Griffin  at  Temple  Bar.     He  said  aloud : 

"But  what  am  I  to  do?    What  am  I  to  dot " 

Hawes  went,  sulkily  refusing  the  apology,  and,  im- 
petuously, Bulmer  substituted  Bradley.  The  tramp 
had  now  turned  into  an  impressive  personage,  for 
he  wore  a  cheap  blue  suit,  that  fitted  admirably  his 
long,  negligent  body.  And,  clean-shaven,  he  seemed 
less  than  his  forty-two  years.  He  looked  rakish, 
man-about-towny,  and  he  developed  a  sparkling 
cynicism. 

"That  fellow,"  said  Bulmer  to  himself,  "is  Snappy 
Bits  come  to  life." 

But  already  Buhner's  thoughts  were  expanding, 
growing  uncontrollable,  and,  toward  the  end  of  the 
year,  when  Jameson  and  his  raiders  were  defeated 
by  Kruger,  he  observed  the  general  ineffectiveness 
of  the  Daily  News  and  the  Daily  Chronicle.  He 
hated  their  leaders,  filled  with  solemn  reprobation. 
"Slabs  of  wet  print,"  he  snarled.  "Who  the  hell 
wants  to  read  about  the  iniquity  of  commercial 
buccaneers  and  the  rights  of  small  states?  Small 
states  be  damned !    What  the  public  wants  is  a  half- 

144 


<X1> 


*S? HAMPSTEAD ^ 

col.  on  how  Kruger  stole  Joe  Chamberlain's  top-hat 
...  or  something  spicy  about  Salisbury's  glass  of 
port,  and  what  he  said  after  he'd  got  it  down.  By 
God!  I'll  show  'em,  one  of  these  days!  There's  too 
many  Tories  about,  especially  now  that  blasted 
Daily  MaiVs  come  along.  That's  the  paper.  They 
know  how  to  dish  it  up.  And  all  we've  got  is  the 
Daily  News,  singing  songs  of  Exeter  Hall,  and  the 
Daily  Chronicle  writing  about  the  Cabinet  crisis  in 
Ruritania,  and  the  Morning  Leader,  all  mourning 
and  no  leading.  I'll  give  'em  Liberalism  before  I've 
done.  Liberalism  and  Empire.  Liberalism  and  beer; 
I'll  show  'em  that  it  wasn't  to  the  tune  of  the  har- 
monium that  Englislimen  spanked  the  Pope  and 
poleaxed  a  king." 


Chapter  IX 
Lining  Up 

THE  short,  nervous  figure  stepped  jauntily  along 
the  Pinner  Road.  The  June  sunshine  hung  softly 
about  him,  and  the  dazzle  of  the  white  road  that 
rose  and  fell  in  the  heat  encouraged  his  meditations. 
He  went  quickly,  revengefully,  careless  of  the  sweat 
which,  from  time  to  time,  he  wiped  from  his  brow. 
His  thoughts  wandered,  for  everything  disturbed 
him:  the  flowers  in  the  hedges,  the  names  of  which 
he  did  not  know  and  which  suggested  to  him  a  series 
of  articles  called  " Rambles  for  Londoners";  he 
observed  an  occasional  insect,  a  beetle,  or  a  butter- 
fly, material  created  by  a  kindly  Providence,  so  that 
paragraphs  on  nature  study  might  interest  the  chil- 
dren and  encourage  fathers  to  buy.  The  sun  was 
hot;  he  remembered  some  talk  of  storing  it  for 
industrial  uses.  Fine  thing,  science;  that  electrical 
supplement  had  been  no  end  of  a  success.  And  still 
the  sun  struck  down  upon  the  white  road,  and  stray 
poppies  imprisoned  its  rays  within  the  scarlet  fra- 
gility of  their  petals;  in  a  pond,  a  fat,  white  lily  sat 
complacent,  baring  her  lusciousness  to  the  rays, 
fleshy,  icily  humid,  receiving,  aloof  and  ungrateful, 
the  fire  into  her  breast,  exquisite  of  curve,  and  with- 
out devotion. 

146 


*»  LINING  UP  *8 

Bulmer  stopped.  He  could  not  think  very  well  as 
he  walked.  lie  had  to  sit  in  a  close  place  that 
limited  his  view,  because  as  soon  as  he  had  seen  all 
that  there  was  to  see  he  lost  interest  in  it,  and  his 
mind,  released,  entered  his  personal  field.  So  he 
sat  down  in  a  field  and  stared  into  a  blackberry- 
bush.    He  thought: 

"I'm  unhappy." 

Thirty-one!  For  a  moment,  forgetting  the  great 
excitement  promised  by  the  morrow,  he  abandoned 
himself  to  the  intense  pessimism  which  poets  have 
disguised  under  the  name  of  youthful  fervor.  Just 
then  he  was  like  David  Copperfield  condemned  to  an 
eternity  of  blacking.  The  last  four  years  had  been 
active,  struggling  years.  Things  happened.  Mrs. 
Bulmer  died  without  entirely  forgiving  him.  She 
just  had  time  to  see  him  move  to  Hampstead,  and 
to  realize  that  he  was  making  six  or  seven  hundred 
a  year,  but  she  did  not  have  time  to  credit  his  in- 
creasing fortune.  Therefore  she  did  not  have  time 
to  forgive  him.  She  called  once,  with  some  solem- 
nity and  much  condescension,  and  tried  to  forgive 
Vi.  She  would  rather  not  have  forgiven  Vi,  but, 
having  secretly  one  evening  gone  to  Laburnum  Road 
to  see  what  sort  of  house  her  son  lived  in,  and 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  cerise  curtains  in  the  bed- 
room, she  was  unable  to  overcome  her  desire  to  see 
the  inside,  too.  To  do  this  she  must  accept,  if  not 
forgive,  Vi.  So  Mrs.  Bulmer  accepted  Vi,  and  opened 
the  doors  of  the  fumed-oak  sideboard  to  make  sure 
that  the  back  was  oak  and  not  deal. 

She  accepted  Vi;  she  accepted  Zip;  a  little  of 
the  shame  bred  by  her  son's  desertion  of  his  safe  job 

147 


cg  CALIBAN IS 

disappeared  with  time.  But  she  retained  to  the  end 
a  sense  of  impending  catastrophe.  "It's  all  very 
well,"  she  often  said  to  Eleanor,  "but  you  never 
know  how  these  things  end."  And,  though  she  re- 
mained cold  to  Richard,  she  loved  him  more  in  her 
fear  for  him.  She  was  determined  to  save  what  he 
might  have  cost  her,  and  began  to  tie  up  small  sums  in 
screws  of  paper — here  a  sovereign  and  there  four  and 
elevenpence.  These  she  hid  behind  the  wainscoting 
and  in  unfrequented  places  under  the  linoleum. 
Sometimes  she  visited  her  hoards  and  told  herself 
that  they  might  come  in  useful  for  Dick.  How 
these  things  ended  one  never  knew. 

When  she  died  Bulmer  felt  more  resentment  than 
pain.  He  missed  her  because  she  was  a  familiar 
fact,  and  he  ached  as  he  reflected  that  she  had 
never  wholly  loved  him;  she  had  done  her  duty  by 
him.  And  he  never  found  out  about  the  little 
hoards,  because,  after  her  death,  Eleanor  and  Hettie 
ceased  to  spring-clean.  Ultimately,  the  contents  of 
the  house  were  sold,  and  taken  away  with  the  secret 
evidences  of  maternal  love,  by  the  Army  and  Navy 
Stores. 

He  felt  very  lonely  as  he  stared  into  the  black- 
berry-bush and  remembered  this.  She  had  not 
loved  him,  not  really.  Eleanor  had  .  .  .  well,  been  a 
sister  to  him,  and  Hettie,  yes,  she  was  fond  of  him 
in  a  soppy  way.  For  a  moment  he  thought  of  Vi, 
an  unaccustomed  preoccupation.  Perhaps  she'd 
loved  him  in  her  brooding,  physical  way,  but  she 
didn't  really  understand;  he'd  been  wrong  there; 
she  didn't  care,  not  really.  If  only  she  had  enough 
money  to  ride  about  in  hansoms  instead  of  buses 

148 


«  LINING  UP  *8? 

.  .  .  well,  that's  all  she  thinks  about.  And  for  a 
moment  his  mind  floated  away  into  an  ideal  region 
where  lived  something  abstract,  sedative,  and  in- 
toxicating; hardly  a  thing,  rather  a  spirit.  He 
might  love  and  be  loved.  He  thought  he  had  seen 
the  spirit,  now  and  then,  in  the  eyes  of  girls  he  met 
in  the  street.  He  spoke  to  one  of  them  once  and 
tried  to  tell  her,  but  she  replied,  "  Chase  me."  The 
bitterness  of  his  youth  mingled  with  this  misty 
idealism.  The  fact  of  his  marriage  did  not  trouble 
him,  for  he  aspired  to  a  union  incorporeal.  But 
what  was  the  good  of  talking,  he  thought.  The 
world  was  what  it  was.  The  only  thing  was  to  go 
ahead,  give  the  public  what  it  wanted.  A  little 
emotion  filled  him  as  he  thought  of  himself  giving 
the  public  what  it  wanted;  as  if  he  crammed  toys 
into  the  eager  hands  of  a  child  and  rejoiced  in  its 
smile. 

Beyond  a  doubt  he  was  giving  the  public  what  it 
wanted,  and  it  was  paying  him  well.  Zip  was  now 
an  established  property,  and  his  half-share  was 
worth  two  thousand  a  year,  while  Snappy  Bits,  his 
own,  that  one,  was  worth  three  thousand  a  year, 
and  rising.  There  was  Splits,  too,  a  comic,  which 
was  fighting,  so  far  with  uncertain  success,  against 
the  dominating  Comic  Cuts.  He  reflected  that 
Bradley  was  making  a  success  of  Splits,  but  Bulmer 
had  to  watch  him.  Annan  having  been  dismissed 
when  emptied  of  his  originality,  Bradley's  ironic 
mind  was  a  little  above  the  head  of  the  Splits  pub- 
lic. Bulmer  reflected  that  it  was  easy  to  get  over 
the  heads  of  that  public;  it  seemed  to  keep  its  head 
where  most  people  kept  their  feet. 

149 


°% CALIBAN IS 

"I  rather  wish  I'd  had  old  Hawes  back,"  he 
thought,  aloud.  Indeed,  the  Hawes  vision  of 
humor,  his  public-house  wit,  his  cockney  tang, 
his  affection  for  jokes  touching  on  bookmak- 
ers, lodgers,  twins,  and  cheese,  would  have 
been  the  making  of  Splits,  But  Buhner  rejected 
the  temptation.  No,  it  was  no  good.  He'd  told 
Hawes  so.  His  old  friend  had  come  to  him  some 
months  before,  in  an  old,  tightly  buttoned  frock- 
coat,  that  revealed  the  clean  but  frayed  linen  of  a 
best  shirt.  Poor  old  Alf !  His  boots  were  all  out  of 
shape,  and  he  walked  as  if  their  creases  hurt  him. 

" Sorry,  Alf,"  said  Buhner;  "can't  take  you  back; 
it's  no  go." 

"I  don't  expect  you  to  make  me  editor,"  said 
Hawes,  humbly.  "I  know  I'm  not  much  good. 
Take  me  on  as  odd  man;  I  can  scratch  up  a  para- 
graph and  do  jobs  for  one  of  your  subs." 

Buhner  did  not  reply  for  some  time.  He  was 
very  sorry  for  Hawes,  and  sentimentality  insisted 
that  he  should  not  desert  his  old  friend.  To  see  him 
like  this  brought  tears  near  his  eyes.  But  he  fought 
his  own  emotion  and  said: 

"No,  Alf,  I'm  sorry.  You've  failed  before.  If  it 
was  only  me  I'd  take  you  back,  but  it's  for  the  sake 
of  the  papers.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  on  the  papers. 
They've  got  to  have  the  very  best,  the  very  freshest. 
If  any  one's  a  success  I've  got  to  get  him  in,  because 
it's  good  for  the  papers.  If  he  fails,  it's  not  fair  to 
load  them  up  with  him.  Nobody  that  leaves  us 
can  ever  come  back,  because  he's  a  bit  of  the  past, 
and  papers  don't  have  a  past.  They  haven't  even 
got  a  future.    People  think  it's  the  sun  makes  the 

150 


*g  LINING  UP  *8 

day;  it  isn't;  it's  the  morning  paper."  He  paused, 
inflamed  by  his  own  enthusiasm,  then  again  noticed 
those  incredible  boots.  He  added:  "But  I  can't 
let  you  go  like  that,  Alf.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do 
for  you.  I'll  write  you  a  check  for  two  hundred  and 
fifty.  Go  out  to  the  colonies.  Perhaps  you'll  make 
good."  He  laughed.  "Go  to  Canada.  Get  on. 
Get  into  their  Parliament,  and  then  ...  ah!  then 
I'll  interview  you  and  photograph  you.  Make 
yourself  first  and  I'll  make  more  of  you.  No  use 
whispering  in  this  world.  Shout,  man,  shout !  And 
if  your  voice  can  get  to  me  across  the  water,  by  God ! 
my  papers  will  be  megaphones  to  carry  it  to  the 
stars." 

He  did  not  tell  Hawes  what  was  in  his  mind  when 
he  spoke  of  his  papers.  He  had  as  a  principle, 
"Never  speak  unless  you  see  advantage  in  revealing 
a  fact,  or  unless  the  mass  of  your  conversation  con- 
ceals the  fact  you  wish  to  hide."  This  Sunday  was 
the  day.  For  five  years  he  had  suffered  while  Alfred 
Harmsworth  rose  on  the  Daily  Mail,  inflated  as  a 
balloon  by  the  hot  breath  of  popularity.  He  had 
watched  the  Daily  Mail  rise,  full  of  hatred  and  of 
admiration,  seen  it  do  exactly  what  should  be  done, 
and  seen  it  led  by  another  man.  At  first,  at  night, 
he  talked  to  Vi  of  his  intentions,  until  he  stopped, 
angry  and  humiliated,  as  her  breathing  grew  more 
regular  and  she  went  to  sleep.  Then  he  found 
furious  disappointment  in  his  own  organs;  what  was 
the  good  of  those  wretched  bits  of  weekly  patch- 
work, Zip,  Splits,  and  the  rest?  What  was  the 
good  of  The  Talebearer,  and  its  detective  stories  and 
its  tales  of  pure  love?    What  did  it  matter  if  Miss 

n  151 


*$  CALIBAN  * 

Acton  did  come  out  of  a  South-African  printing  firm 
to  create  Jackie's  Own  Journal,  and  later  Mollie's 
Own  Journal?  What  did  it  matter  if  they  all  adver- 
tised one  another,  making  a  crisscross  of  publicity, 
entangling  men  for  Snappy  Bits  through  their  little 
daughter's  paper,  and  wives  for  The  Talebearer 
through  the  influence  of  their  husbands'  favorite 
Splits?  What  did  it  matter  if  he  was  saving  nearly 
five  thousand  a  year,  living  like  a  little,  middle- 
class  man  in  Hampstead?  What  did  it  matter  if 
in  twenty  years  he  were  worth  a  hundred  thousand 
or  more?  Money!  He  laughed  aloud.  At  bottom 
he  despised  money,  except  that  money  was  power. 

It  is  proverbial  that  the  great,  when  beheld,  dis- 
appoint would-be  worshipers;  Buhner  thus  sur- 
prised those  who  already  glimpsed  in  him  that 
compound  of  steadfastness  and  inspiration,  cruelty 
and  sympathetic  understanding,  generosity,  egoism, 
aloofness  and  desire,  that  we  sometimes  venture  to 
call  genius.  In  rare  fits  of  self-consciousness,  Bulmer 
was  inclined  to  bewail  his  insignificant  appearance, 
his  pale  eyes  and  hair,  and  especially  the  poverty  of 
his  fair  mustache.  He  felt  entitled  to  the  best  mus- 
tache, as  to  the  best  of  all  things,  and  with  childish 
superstition  tried  a  number  of  greasy  cures  for  hair- 
lessness.  Bulmer  was  wrong.  He  was  slight,  but 
not  unimpressive;  certainly  too  short,  too  thin,  dis- 
tinguished neither  by  excess  of  nose  nor  by  a  chin 
like  a  shovel;  but  he  did  not  value  as  he  should  have 
his  vivacity,  the  activity  of  his  glance  that  ate  as 
an  acid  into  the  resolution  of  an  adversary,  the 
devotion  of  a  disciple.  Yet  he  surprised  both  ad- 
versary and  disciples  because  they  expected  some- 

152 


« LINING  UP « 

thing  massive;   they  sought  in  him  the  rush  of  the 
elephant,  and  found  the  supple  quality  of  the  tiger. 

It  was  this  quality  had  captured  Vi,  but  also  this 
quality  led  Buhner  later  to  elude  her.  At  first  she 
reproached  her  husband  for  never  sitting  still,  for 
escaping  too  readily  from  her  thick  arms.  In  that 
sense  he  made  her  a  poor  lover;  he  had  no  languor; 
he  shook  off  her  thrall  too  swiftly,  too  soon  tired  of 
a  pleasure,  too  soon  desired  another  which  she  did 
not  command.  When  once  he  tried  to  explain  this, 
to  himself  rather  than  to  Vi,  he  only  succeeded  in 
annoying  her. 

"What  you  want,"  she  said,  "is  a  harem." 

Vi  was  wrong.  Bulmer  wanted  no  harem:  he 
hardly  wanted  a  woman  at  all.  He  never  put  to 
himself  that  a  man  had  to  have  a  woman  about,  so 
that  his  meals  might  be  cooked  and  his  boots  blacked, 
but  that  was  the  actual  role  of  woman  in  has  life.  He 
was  faithful  to  Vi,  because  no  woman  tempted  him, 
because  he  had  given  to  his  career,  to  his  blind  as- 
piration, to  success  for  the  sake  of  success,  all  his 
energy,  all  his  idealism.  He  wanted  power.  Power 
to  what  end  he  did  not  know,  but  just  power,  the 
consciousness  of  it. 

And  now  he  was  to  have  power.  It  had  come 
simply,  easily,  through  a  conversation  with  Bradley, 
into  whose  careless  ears  he  suddenly  expended  his 
ambition.  The  ex-tramp,  now  well  tailored,  his  hair 
close  cut,  his  beard  scented  with  bay  rum,  given  to 
white  spats  and  to  large  Coronas,  a  member  of  a 
club  in  St.  James's  Street,  listened  to  him  with 
irony,  and  said: 

"I  don't  know  what  more  you  want.    I  don't 

153 


°g  CALIBAN  *3? 

know  what  you  make;  you're  too  wily  to  tell  me, 
being  afraid  I'll  ask  you  for  a  rise,  but  it  can't  be 
far  off  ten  thousand  a  year." 

Buhner  did  not  reply.  He  did  not  want  to  con- 
tradict this;  it  was  good  that  people  should  think 
he  was  making  ten  thousand  a  year.  Nor  did 
Bradley  say  anything;  he  knew  that  Bulmer  did 
not  make  ten  thousand  a  year,  but  he  knew  also 
that  Bulmer  would  like  him  to  think  he  did.  There- 
fore Bulmer  would  not  deny  it,  and  therefore,  also, 
he  would  not  be  able  to  refuse  him  a  rise  a  little 
later.    Then  he  had  an  idea. 

"I  say,  Bulmer,"  he  remarked,  "if  you're  eating 
your  heart  out,  as  they  say  in  that  compendium  of 
immortal  literature  which  you  call  The  Talebearer, 
why  don't  you  float  your  damn  daily  and  be  done? 
What's  the  use  of  going  on  like  this?  You're  only 
raising  a  boil  on  your  young  ambition.  Since  you 
won't  take  my  tip  and  either  fill  yourself  up  with 
Heidsieck  or  break  hearts  (break  hearts  while  you 
may) — well,  float  your  damn  daily." 

"What  about  capital?  It  wants  .  .  .  well,  to  do 
it  as  I  want  to,  half  a  million." 

"Well,  get  half  a  million.  What's  the  use  of 
pouring  out  the  slush  we  do  pour  out  on  the  people 
of  England  if  you  can't  get  half  a  million  out  of 
them?" 

"It  isn't  slush,"  said  Bulmer,  hotly.  "Anyway, 
I  read  all  my  papers  for  pleasure.  But  never  mind 
that.    How  are  we  going  to  raise  half  a  million?  " 

"Go  and  ask  the  damn  capitalists.  There  are 
capitalists  everywhere,  going  about  with  their 
tongues  hanging  out,  looking  for  a  chance  to  have 

154 


*8?  LINING  UP  °£ 

a  drink  of  somebody  else's  water.  Why,  the  world's 
full  of  capitalists,  and  bugs,  and  popular  magazines. 
There's  some  in  my  own  family — capitalists,  I  mean, 
not  bugs." 

"Oh,"  said  Buhner,  suddenly  grave.  "Who's 
that?" 

And  that  was  how  it  happened.  Uncle  Bradley 
began  by  being  cynical;  the  forty-year  record  of  his 
nephew  did  not  breed  confidence,  but  the  personality 
of  Bulmer,  and  especially  the  balance-sheets  of  his 
six  magazines,  were  extremely  reassuring.  Uncle 
Bradley  hesitated  for  a  long  time;  at  bottom  he 
rather  wanted  to  make  it  a  condition  that  his  nephew 
should  be  given  the  sack.  It  would  be  safer,  some- 
how. But,  in  the  end,  Bulmer  swept  him  away  on 
the  current  of  an  intoxicated  tirade,  where  he  demon- 
strated that  half  England  was  aching  for  a  combina- 
tion of  Liberalism  and  vulgarity. 

"I  don't  say  the  Daily  Mail  isn't  all  right.  I 
don't  say  the  Daily  Express  isn't  all  right.  They've 
got  zip  all  right,  both  of  them.  But  they're  Tory. 
Oh,  I  know  there  are  no  Tories,  there  are  no  Liberals, 
among  the  public.  They  are  only  people  who  want 
news,  and  they  vote  one  side  or  the  other  because, 
damn  it  all,  when  you  toss  a  penny  it's  got  to  come 
down  either  heads  or  tails.  But  what  really  matters 
is  not  the  joint,  it's  the  dishing  up.  Little  Bethel,  and 
the  old  ladies  who  are  making  trousers  for  the  nigger 
boys,  and  the  Welsh  drapers  who  exhort  their  em- 
ployees at  the  P.  S.  A.  on  Sunday  and  give  them 
Canadian  cheddar  on  Monday,  and  all  the  people 
who  want  to  do  good  on  the  cheap,  and  all  the 
people  who  keep  a  religion  because  they  don't  like 

155 


*8 CALIBAN *g 

dogs  .  .  .  millions  of  them  all  doing  good  and  their 
neighbor,  do  you  think  they're  getting  what  they 
want  out  of  the  Daily  Chronicle  and  Cabinet  crises 
in  Mesopotamia,  and  out  of  the  Daily  News  and  its 
touching  little  bits  about  the  presentation  of  a 
ginger-ale  stand  to  the  Rev.  Josiah  Bagasoul? 
They're  quite  as  interested  as  the  Daily  Mail  public 
in  details  about  the  Gaiety  girl,  and  how  she  made 
the  Honorable  James  pay  up.  They  want  to  vote 
for  Campbell-Bannermann,  and  be  told  how  to  get 
a  plot  of  begonias  out  of  four  pennyworth  of  seed." 

"But  what  about  Harmsworth?"  said  Uncle 
Bradley  and  the  five  stolid  city  men  whom  he  had 
brought  in. 

"Where  there's  room  for  one  there's  room  for  two," 
said  Buhner.  "Harmsworth  has  created  a  taste; 
it's  our  job  to  give  the  people  what  he's  taught  the 
people  to  believe  they  want.  Every  advertisement 
of  the  Daily  Mail  is  an  advertisement  of  the 
Daily  Gazette,  because  they're  teaching  people  to 
want  papers.  There  can't  be  too  many  papers,  any 
more  than  there  can  be  too  much  beer.  The  news- 
paper's a  habit,  like  beer,  and  they  both  grow  on 
you." 

So,  as  Buhner  gazed  into  the  blackberry-bush,  he 
knew  that  the  answer  that  would  come  next  morn- 
ing would  be  "Yes."  The  Daily  Gazette!  His  mind 
was  fermenting  with  plans,  preparing  to  snatch  smart 
newspaper  men.  His  mind  whirled  with  stunts  and 
scoops.  Money  did  not  trouble  him  then;  it  did 
not  matter  much  that  he  would  have  a  thirty -per- 
cent, share  and  be  paid  for  all  advertisements  of 
the  newspaper  in  his  own  magazines.    If  he  had 

156 


«  LINING  UP  *g 


thought  of  it  he  would  have  abandoned  it  all,  so 
that  it  might  swell  the  four  hundred  and  twenty- 
thousand  pounds  of  capital  guaranteed  to  the  paper. 
He  loved  this  unborn  paper  as  a  mother  a  child 
that  is  to  come.  His  fancy  staggered  before  a  pict- 
ure of  the  future.     He  murmured: 

"I'll  show  the  Daily  Mail,  They're  pushing  the 
big  things  like  cars;  I'll  push  the  little  things  like 
dogs.  I'll  push  things  of  which  there  are  most  be- 
cause there  are  more  people  to  like  'em  .  .  .  gardens 
.  .  .  season  tickets  .  .  .  how  to  give  a  tea-party  like 
the  swells,  for  twopence  a  head.  The  Daily  MaiVs 
too  refined.  It's  all  over  theaters;  I'll  give  'em 
music-halls.  And  plenty  of  Empire  on  the  cheap, 
with  no  taxes  to  pay  for  an  army  and  navy.  I'll 
give  'em  Little  England,  and  make  it  into  a  beano 
land.  As  for  Harmsworth  . . .  Zip,  my  boy,  I'll  give 
you  zip." 


Part  III 

THE  VORTEX 


Many  a  mad  magenta  minute 
Lights  the  Uwender  of  life.  .  .  . 

— Sandys  Wason. 


Chapter  I 
The  Daily  Gazette 

THE  paper  was  twelve  days  old,  and  already  it 
had  enemies.  Made  up  almost  to  resemble  the. 
Daily  Mail,  it  flaunted  an  aggressive  Liberalism  and! 
a  manly  bluffness  which  caused  noses  to  sniff  and 
eyebrows  to  rise  among  the  brethren  of  Fleet  Street. 
From  the  National  Liberal  Club  came  references  to 
upstarts;  from  the  Reform  Club,  as  usual,  nothing 
at  all;  from  the  Press  Club,  an  itch  to  be  in  it;  from 
friends  of  secretaries  of  Opposition  leaders,  veiled 
references  to  the  weather,  leading  up  to  inquiries 
casual  as  a  yawn:  many  people  wanted  to  know  if 
suave  Rosebery  and  Empire,  or  Radical  John 
Burns,  or  respectable  and  Free  Church  McKenna 
was  to  be  expressed  in  the  Daily  Gazette.  Bulmer 
was  flattered  by  these  maneuvers,  but  he  carefully 
repulsed  everybody.  He  intimated  that  he  would 
run  his  paper  as  he  chose. 

"And,"  he  added,  "if  required,  I  will  kick  Liber- 
alism where  I  think  fit.  After  all,  that  will  help  it 
to  rise  in  the  world." 

He  was  free.  Already  his  proprietors  were  afraid 
that  they  would  lose  their  money.  Buhner,  know- 
ing that  they  could  not  sell  their  shares,  did  all  he 
could  to  maintain  in  their  minds  the  feeling  that 
they  had  harnessed  their  chariot  to  the  tail  of  a 

\  161 


<X>3 


V  CALIBAN  * 

comet  which  would  shortly  crash  into  some  solid 
star.  As  he  put  it  to  Vi,  in  bed:  " First  principle  of 
business,  Vi,  is  for  the  man  of  brains  to  terrify  the 
man  of  money.  Brains  and  money  never  pull  to- 
gether; in  the  end,  when  brains  gets  there,  money 
commits  suicide.  Gets  locked  up  in  the  safe,  you 
know.     Stifled." 

For  he  was  beginning  to  say  brief,  dramatic 
things.  He  was  not  quite  thirty-two.  He  was  in- 
credibly successful.  But  still  he  was  only  thirty- 
two,  and  so  he  needed  to  demonstrate  that  thirty- 
two  is  half  of  sixty-four,  and  twice  as  smart.  The 
dramatic  instinct  had  heralded  the  first  moments  of 
the  Daily  Gazette,  for  Bulmer  had  determined  not 
to  slink  in  byways;  he  thought  Carmelite  Street 
unobtrusive:  "All  right  for  Harmsworth,"  he  said. 
"He's  been  at  it  for  years.  We're  too  new.  We've 
got  to  come  out  like  a  bomb  Got  to  have  an  office 
in  Fleet  Street  itself." 

There  was  no  empty  building  in  Fleet  Street. 
Buhner's  despondency  did  not  last  many  minutes. 
He  remarked:  "I  want  a  house  in  Fleet  Street. 
There  are  houses  in  Fleet  Street.  Therefore  I  can 
get  a  house  in  Fleet  Street."  For  Bulmer  thought 
simply,  and  never  of  more  than  one  thing  at  a  time. 
Almost  immediately  he  decided  what  to  do;  his 
printers  were  established  in  Shoe  Lane,  two  doors 
from  the  corner.  The  obvious  thing  was  to  have 
the  corner.  This  was  a  very  old  house  divided  up 
into  three  large  offices  and  six  small  ones.  Below 
was  a  shop.  It  all  went  very  simply.  The  little 
offices  were  delighted  to  sell  their  lease  for  a  premium 
of  two  hundred  pounds  or  so  each  and  the  cost  of 

162 


*g  THE  "DAILY  GAZETTE"  ^ 

removal.  Two  of  the  big  offices  wanted  to  extend, 
and  had  been  struggling  for  a  long  time  to  persuade 
each  other  to  move.  They  had  thus  come  to  a  dead- 
lock, which  Buhner  solved  by  offering  to  move  them 
free  of  cost  to  a  better  building,  and  to  pay  the  first 
year's  rent. 

The  third  large  office  proved  impossible;  it  was 
the  London  branch  of  an  ancient  provincial  news- 
paper which  had  never  moved  before  and  did  not 
intend  to  move  unless  the  roof  fell  in.  Buhner 
held  a  number  of  agonized  conferences  with  aged 
gentlemen  who  clung  to  their  office  with  a  tight- 
lipped  despair,  recalling  that  of  an  old-age  pensioner 
whose  furniture  the  landlord  threatens  to  deposit 
into  the  street.  The  old  gentlemen  were  frightfully 
disturbed  by  the  noise  that  was  going  on  above  and 
below  their  office,  where  Bulmer  was  causing  parti- 
tions to  be  torn  down  and  other  partitions  to  be  put 
up,  where  windows  were  being  burst  into  the  walls, 
and  where,  judging  from  the  sound,  ceiling  after 
ceiling  was  being  precipitated  over  the  old  gentle- 
men's heads.  But  with  toothless  obstinacy  they 
intimated  to  Bulmer  that  they  would  never,  never 
forsake  that  office.  And  indeed  they  never  did; 
the  shop  gave  a  little  trouble  until  Bulmer  installed 
a  printing-press  over  their  ceiling  and  drove  them 
out  by  vibration,  but  the  old  provincial  paper  stayed. 
It  is  still  there.  It  is  still  living  in  a  state  of  enraged 
bewilderment  because  young  Americans  call  and 
insist  on  handing  out  the  dope,  while  partly  clad 
flappers  rush  through  their  inquiry  office  and  ask  if 
this  is  the  Daily  Gazette  matrimonial  bureau.     The 

words  "  Daily  Gazette,"  in  gilt  letters  nine  feet  high, 

163 


*8?  CALIBAN  H 

obscure  their  timid  lettering.  But  still  they  stay, 
"  bound  upon  the  wheel,  go  forth  from  life  to  life, 
from  despair  to  despair,"  while  Buhner  above,  below, 
on  the  right  and  on  the  left,  conveys  to  them  some- 
thing of  the  blatancy  of  a  changing  world. 

Bulmer  had  enjoyed  his  battle  with  the  old  gentle- 
men, though  he  never  understood  how  they  came  to 
stay.  He  ended  by  putting  them  down  as  natural 
phenomena,  like  typhoid  and  black  beetles,  which  the 
progress  of  civilization  would  obliterate  by  degrees. 
Besides,  he  had  other  things  to  think  of,  for  he 
created  the  wind  of  the  Daily  Gazette  and  was  borne 
onward  upon  it.  The  enlistment  of  the  staff  was 
dramatic;  he  did  not  pick  a  single  leading  man  from 
among  unemployed  journalists;  every  one  of  them 
was  stolen  from  another  paper. 

"A  good  man  has  work,"  said  Bulmer.  "No 
doubt  there  are  good  men  padding  their  hoof  in  the 
Street,  but  how's  one  to  find  them?  The  man  we 
want  is  the  man  for  whose  services  we've  got  to  out- 
bid his  proprietors."  That  was  how  he  stole  Charles 
Swinbrook,  his  editor,  from  a  big  Scottish  daily, 
and  Gedling,  as  foreign  sub.  He  hesitated  a  little 
over  Ash,  the  news  editor,  for  Ash  came  to  his  house 
in  Hampstead  in  the  early  morning,  and  offered  him- 
self to  him.  But  Ash  was  extraordinarily  clever,  and 
confessed  calmly  that  he  had  left  five  papers  before 
he  was  thirty,  scoring  every  time. 

"Oh,"  said  Bulmer.  "I  suppose  you'll  leave  me 
as  soon  as  you've  got  all  you  can  out  of  the  Daily 
Gazette." 

"I  will  if  I  get  a  better  chance,"  said  Ash.  "Mr. 
Bulmer,  I'm  out  to  make  money,  but  I  guess  I'll  get 

164 


]8 THE  " DAILY  GAZETTE" « 

more  out  of  you  than  out  of  anybody.  You  can 
have  my  body — that's  pretty  dear — and  you  can 
have  my  soul  for  nothing." 

Bulmer  laughed,  and  took  him  on.  He  liked  him 
very  well,  and  he  also  had  faith  in  his  advertising 
manager,  an  American  called  Silas  J.  Hassop,  a  gray, 
quiet,  elderly  man,  who,  on  being  approached  to  leave 
the  advertising  agency  which  he  managed,  arrived 
with  four  weeks'  orders  in  hand  for  the  front  page. 

"So  you've  got  off  the  mark  before  the  paper's 
started,"  said  Bulmer.  "You  seem  pretty  sure  of 
getting  the  job." 

"Well,"  said  the  American,  thoughtfully,  "I 
don't  see  you  turning  down  a  man  that  comes  along 
with  four  weeks'  front  page  in  hand." 

Indeed,  Bulmer  was  delighted  with  them  all,  ex- 
cept with  Ormesby,  the  literary  editor,  probably 
because  he  was  grave  and  had  a  Napoleonic  chin. 
Bulmer  knew  those  chins;  they  were  always  feeble. 
But  still,  as  the  fellow  was  only  going  to  look  after 
books,  he  forgot  all  about  it.  Miss  Kent,  the  typist, 
and  Moss,  his  private  secretary,  completed  his  per- 
sonal staff.  He  soon  grew  fond  of  Moss,  for  the 
young  Jew,  just  down  from  Cambridge,  at  once 
showed  incredible  tact  in  saving  his  chief  interviews. 
He  was  human,  too,  had  twinkling  brown  eyes,  and 
the  loose  mouth  of  the  comedian.  One  day,  when 
he  thought  himself  alone,  Bulmer  heard  him  sing 
gently  to  himself: 

"Tiddly  urn  pum  pum, 
Tiddly  um  pum  pum, 
He  did  it  orfully  grand. 
165 


*8?  CALIBAN  *8 


Tiddly  um  pum  pum, 
Tiddly  um  pum  pum, 
The  man  who  conducted  the  band." 

Bulmer  raised  his  chin  upon  his  hand  and  thought 
of  Hawes.  Poor  old  Hawes!  He  wondered  what 
had  become  of  him.  A  bartender  in  Canada,  he 
supposed,  or  something. 

"For  she  was  one  of  the  early  birds, 
And  1  was  one  of  the  worms  .  .  ." 

hummed  Moss.  Then  he  noticed  his  chief,  and,  in- 
stead of  looking  bashful,  smiled  and  said: 

" Popular  music,  sir;  that's  what  the  people  like. 
What  about  one  of  the  latest  songs  as  a  supplement?  " 

"Not  a  bad  idea,"  said  Bulmer,  "but  won't  do 
for  the  Gazette.  We're  solemn,  you  know;  pillars  of 
Empire,  and  all  that.  But  you  talk  of  it  to  Mr. 
Linton.     Might  do  for  Zip." 

Bulmer  was  rather  disinteresting  himself  of  his 
periodicals.  He  had  handed  them  over  to  Linton, 
who  was  fat,  amiable,  middle-aged,  and  had  passed 
twenty -five  years  in  running  an  immense  variety  of 
magazines  appealing  to  the  fireside,  the  racecourse, 
the  ring,  and  the  choir.  Bradley  had  refused  to 
handle  the  periodicals,  pointing  out  that  he'd  been 
doing  the  work  for  four  years,  and  that  he'd  never 
done  anything  for  four  years  on  end  before,  and  was 
going  mad.  So  he  took  charge  of  the  publishing 
and  became  general  manager.  Excepting  the  times 
when  he  was  recovering  from  an  excess  of  cham- 
pagne he  intimately  retained  Bulmer's  confidence. 

166 


•g  THE  "DAILY  GAZETTE"  °S 

Bulmer  tried  to  reform  him  now  and  then,  pointing 
out  that  sobriety  was  not  a  virtue,  but  certainly  a 
convenience. 

"No  good,"  said  Bradley.  "Once  upon  a  time  I 
used  to  drink  like  a  fish;  now  I  get  as  drunk  as  a 
lord;  there's  a  vast  difference." 

The  success  of  the  Daily  Gazette  was  almost  im- 
mediate. Bulmer  had,  of  course,  refused  to  join 
the  newspaper  ring,  and  printed  six  hundred  thou- 
sand. In  view  of  the  future,  he  did  not  dare  sell 
them  to  the  news  agents  cheaper  than  did  his  com- 
petitors, but  he  engaged  an  incredible  number  of 
decrepit  loafers  who  were  controlled  through  Brad- 
ley's organization.  These  he  stationed  in  twos  and 
threes  outside  every  railway  station,  public  building, 
or  block  of  offices.  They  did  not  individually  sell 
very  much,  but  as  they  received  the  paper  at  cost 
they  made  profits  enough  to  induce  them  to  go  on 
.  .  .  and  their  placards  gave  the  Daily  Gazette  an 
intense  advertisement.  Indeed,  in  those  first  days, 
Bulmer  thought  of  nothing  but  advertisements.  He 
was  one  of  the  first  to  flash  at  night  upon  the  clouds 
the  name  of  his  paper;  he  engaged  in  savage  assaults 
on  the  imperialism  of  the  Daily  Mail  and  the  Daily 
Express,  "not,"  as  he  put  it,  "that  I  or  my  public 
care  a  damn  either  way,  but  if  they  slang  me  they 
advertise  me."  Feeling  that  sandwich-men  were  out 
of  date,  he  signalized  the  King's  birthday  by  a  Daily 
Gazette  pageant  of  triumphal  cars,  which,  for  a  whole 
day,  distributed  Daily  Gazette  souvenirs  from  Finch- 
ley  to  Reigate,  and  from  Richmond  to  Gravesend. 
And  on  the  5th  of  November  an  immense  quantity 
of  bombs  were  fired  from  the  roof  of  his  building, 

12  167 


°%  CALIBAN  1? 

dropping  showers  of  aluminum  disks,  each  one  of 
which  entitled  the  finder  to  receive  the  paper  next 
day  free  of  cost.  And  the  circulation,  which  had 
started  at  four  hundred  and  ten  thousand,  dropped 
down  for  a  little  while,  then  began  to  rise  steadily. 
When  once  more  it  reached  four  hundred  thousand 
Buhner  began  to  spray  his  rivals  with  insults.  One 
morning  it  was  a  placard: 

WE  HAVE  LICKED  THE  DAILY  EXPRESS 
BUY  THE  DAILY  GAZETTE 

or: 

MORNING  POST 
COME  OUT  AND  FIGHT. 

And  he  put  upon  the  public  a  pressure  which  appealed 
to  the  sheep  spirit : 

EVERYBODY'S  BUYING  THE  DAILY  GAZETTE 
DO  YOU  WANT  TO  GET  LEFT? 

Or  again,  insinuating  leaflets  were  distributed  in 
the  street: 

THE  DAILY  GAZETTE  WAS  THE  ONLY  PAPER  THAT 
GAVE  THE  STRAIGHT  TIP  YESTERDAY  FOR  THE  LIN- 
COLNSHIRE! IF  YOU  HAD  PAID  YOUR  HALFPENNY 
YOU  WOULD  HAVE  BACKED  A  WINNER  AT  THIRTY- 
THREE  TO  ONE!  DON'T  GET  LEFT  NEXT  TIME!  BUY 
THE  DAILY  GAZETTE  WHILE  YOU  CAN! 

STOP  PRESS! 
ALL  THE  WINNERS! 

DAILY  GAZETTE 1 

THE  OTHER  PAPERS        -        -        -       ALSO  RAN 

168 


*S?  THE  "DAILY  GAZETTE''  Tg 

Bulmer,  much  to  the  annoyance  of  Swinbrook, 
forced  him  to  open  a  woman's  half-page,  which  he 
almost  entirely  filled  with  theatrical  gossip  and 
society  news  on  the  edge  of  scandal.  There  were 
also  acute  discussions  on  the  best  wrays  to  catch 
men,  and  facts  as  to  the  materials  which  would  turn. 
There  was  a  spirited  debate  on  "Does  tussore  clean 
better  than  shantung?' ' 

As  for  the  politics,  Bulmer  was  giving  the  Liberal 
opposition  the  support  that  the  photographer's  rack 
gives  to  the  head  of  his  patient.  The  Boer  War  was 
ending,  and  as  obviously  England  would  win  and 
annex,  it  was  no  good  going  in  for  Little  England. 

"It's  all  very  well,"  he  said  to  Swinbrook,  who 
had  conscientious  scruples  and  was  a  most  con- 
servative Liberal.  "A  lot  of  them  are  grizzling 
about  the  poor  Boers,  but  when  the  Tories  have 
done  the  job  for  them  and  got  hold  of  the  country, 
there  isn't  one  of  them  won't  be  willing  to  make 
a  bit  out  of  the  South  African  mines.  Don't  you 
make  any  mistake  about  it,  Swinbrook,  the  public 
may  want  to  hang  the  murderer,  but  it's  always 
ready  for  a  share  in  the  swag." 

Besides,  the  politics  of  the  Daily  Gazette  were  not 
obtrusive.  Mainly  they  consisted  in  ferocious 
attacks  on  Joseph  Chamberlain,  who  was  titillated 
every  day  by  cartoons  and  eight-line  verse.  The 
foreign  correspondents  were  soon  taught  that  what 
the  Daily  Gazette  wanted  was  nippy  news;  so  they 
soon  gave  up  the  habit  of  sending  reports  of  sittings 
of  the  Reichstag  and  the  Cortes,  but  gave  full 
accounts  of  any  moral  scandal  they  could  find  in 
Berlin  of  smart  elopements  and  trials  for  bribery. 

169 


«  CALIBAN  °& 

It  was  all  readable,  bright,  active,  easy  to  under- 
stand, for  it  demanded  no  understanding.  When 
one  day  Swinbrook  told  Bulmer  that  he  treated  his 
public  like  children,  Bulmer  replied: 

"You  think  too  highly  of  mankind,  Swinbrook. 
Man  isn't  a  cow.  It  can't  chew  the  cud.  They 
gulp  the  news  down  and  they  get  indigestion.  I 
give  them  their  news  peptonized." 

There  were  other  sides  to  this  activity.  Four 
days  after  the  flotation  of  the  Daily  Gazette  Bulmer 
was  so  tired  that  he  walked  home  to  clear  his  head. 
This  took  him  past  Piccadilly  Circus  and  through 
Mayfair.  He  stopped  for  a  moment  in  Upper  Brook 
Street,  and  it  suddenly  struck  him  that  a  rising  man 
ought  to  live  there.  The  silent  breadth,  the  com- 
posure of  the  place,  impressed  him,  and  for  a  moment 
he  felt  small.  Correspondingly,  he  rebounded,  and, 
staring  at  the  house  opposite,  said  to  himself,  "I'll 
have  that  house."  He  noted  the  number.  Deciding 
it  was  really  very  late,  he  took  a  cab  back  to  Fleet 
Street  and  slept  on  Swinbrook's  sofa.  At  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning  he  went  back  to  Upper 
Brook  Street.  He  saw  the  occupier,  an  entirely 
amazed  and  fortunately  rather  impoverished  dow- 
ager. After  half  an  hour's  conversation  he  drove  off 
with  the  bemused  lady  to  her  solicitor's.  As  they 
came  out  he  said: 

"I  suppose  you'll  want  to  pack  your  clothes. 
Wouldn't  take  you  more  than  three  or  four  hours, 
would  it?" 

If  he  had  not  forgotten  Upper  Brook  Street  he 

would  have  found  Vi  easier  to  manage.    As  it  was, 

Vi  heard  of  this  promotion  at  two  in  the  morning, 

170 


*g  THE  " DAILY  GAZETTE"  °$ 

when  Bulmer  shook  her  by  the  shoulder  and  told  her 
to  get  up  and  pack.  It  took  him  some  time  to  make 
her  understand,  and  when  she  understood  that  he  had 
bought  the  lease  of  a  new  house  and  its  furniture — 
the  entire  contents,  from  grand  piano  to  match-stand 
— she  was  so  overwhelmed  that  she  wept.  For  she 
had  been  living  a  lonely  life  for  several  years,  and 
the  detonations  of  Buhner's  career  came  to  her  as 
from  afar.  The  old  physical  lure  that  had  been  so 
strong  did  not  now  bind  them  together.  Bulmer 
caressed  her  between  editions,  and  as  she  was  idle 
she  found  that  time  went  slowly.  She  had  even 
lost  her  old  delight  in  showing  her  friends  at  Liberty's 
how  much  money  she  had. 

"You  do  it  on  purpose,"  she  sobbed.  "You  do 
things  behind  my  back.     It's  as  if  I  didn't  count." 

"Come  on,"  said  Bulmer,  "get  up,"  and  helped 
her  out  of  bed  with  a  certain  roughness.  Vi  was 
thirty-five,  but  still  handsome  in  a  brooding,  animal 
way,  and  for  a  moment  he  noticed  those  sullen  good 
looks.  But  love  was  to  him  accessory.  One  made 
love  as  one  brought  out  a  newspaper,  as  one  shaved, 
life  being  one  damn  exciting  thing  after  the  other. 
Only  now  and  then  did  there  pass  through  his  mind 
that  strange  feeling  of  aimlessness,  loneliness.  He 
had  felt  it  most  often  in  Vi's  arms.  It  was  not  that 
she  was  remote,  this  heavy,  fine  woman;  nothing 
was  remote  to  Bulmer  when  it  was  there.  But, 
dimly,  he  always  realized  that  he  had  not  the  thing 
he  needed,  because,  if  he  had  it,  he  would  not  know 
it  wras  there.  He  would  not  be  the  master  of  a 
pleasure;  he  would  be  in  a  state  beyond  desire. 

So  Violet  wept  and  packed.     As  soon  as  the  shops 

171 


*8  CALIBAN  TB 

were  open  telephone  calls  precipitated  into  Upper 
Brook  Street  men  with  heavy  boots,  to  take  away- 
decrepit  furniture  and  bring  new,  to  run  pipes 
through  ceilings,  and  fit  porcelain  baths.  Vi  lived 
through  it  in  a  state  of  agonized  pride,  and  the  con- 
fusion was  increased  by  Bulmer,  who,  becoming  in- 
toxicated with  his  house,  insisted  on  superintending 
the  multitude  of  workmen,  with  the  result  that  a 
large  policy  meeting  was  held  in  the  drawing-room 
while  the  ancient  cisterns  were  being  dragged  down 
the  stairs.  And  in  the  hall  all  sorts  of  people  waited 
to  waylay  Vi — beggars  in  various  states  of  decent 
distress,  representatives  of  charitable  societies  anx- 
ious to  have  Mrs.  Bulmer's  patronage,  keen-looking 
young  men,  thinking  to  do  better  here  than  at  Fleet 
Street,  artists  with  their  portfolios.  There  was  even 
a  rather  decayed  colonel  who  had  come  to  offer  social 
introductions,  and  sat  in  the  hall  for  four  hours, 
carved  out  of  brown  wood,  waxed  and  polished,  and 
refusing  to  let  the  gaze  of  his  monocled  eye  rest  upon 
this  crowd  that  was  not  in  society. 


Chapter  II 
Upper  Brook  Street 

BULMER  realized  clearly  that  life  is  just 
one  damn  thing  after  another  when  he  had 
to  control  together  the  Daily  Gazette  and  Upper 
Brook  Street.  Twin  passions,  and,  unfortunately, 
fighting  twins.  He  did  not  tell  himself  that  he  had 
taken  on  too  much,  and  taken  it  on  too  suddenly, 
for  that  sort  of  idea  did  not  occur  to  him.  All  he 
knew  was  that  he  was  harassed,  received  and  wrote 
too  many  letters,  saw  too  many  people,  and  was 
unduly  haunted  by  the  telephone.  And  because  he 
felt  harassed  he  concluded  that  Vi  was  inefficient. 

In  those  early,  feverish  days  everything  was  a 
pleasure,  everything  was  a  load,  because  he  had  no 
sense  of  finality.  He  wanted  to  be  the  greatest 
newspaper  proprietor  in  England,  to  smash  Harms- 
worth,  to  dominate  politics,  to  have  everybody  at 
his  crushes,  and  yet  a  secret  discontent  told  him  that 
there  stood  behind  all  this  something  else,  unattain- 
able unless  he  could  define  it.  It  was  not  that  he 
did  not  succeed;  the  circulation  of  the  Daily  Gazette 
was  rising  steadily,  and  it  triumphed  by  cynicism. 
Having  announced  the  signature  of  peace  with  the 
Boers  the  day  before  it  actually  happened,  the  Daily 
Gazette  saved  itself  with  magnificent  effrontery,  by 

printing  next  morning  an  enormous  head-line: 

173 


*g  CALIBAN  *« 

PEACE  SIGNED 

The  "Daily  Gazette"  Told  You  So  Yesterday 

Who's  First  with  the  News  Now? 

All  the  superior  people  laughed,  but  London  was 
impressed,  and  the  circulation,  which  had  been 
enhanced  by  this  impudent  affair,  was  almost  en- 
tirely maintained. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  Vi,  Buhner's  social  success 
might  have  been  more  dramatically  swift.  As  soon 
as  Upper  Brook  Street  was  ready  Buhner  instructed 
Vi  to  get  a  party,  much  as  he  would  have  told  her 
to  get  a  leg  of  mutton.  It  was  only  a  week  later, 
when  he  realized  that  nothing  was  happening,  that 
he  questioned  Vi,  and  found  that  she  could  think  of 
nobody  except  the  people  in  the  office  and  their 
wives.     He  became  extraordinarily  angry. 

"Good  God!  haven't  you  got  any  common  sense? 
Do  you  think  we've  taken  a  house  in  Mayfair  to 
hold  a  wayzgoose?  Why  don't  you  ask  the  com- 
positors? And  ask  Hettie  and  Ellie  to  bring  the 
young  men  from  the  estate  office?  Do  you  think 
we're  making  thousands  a  year  to  sit  on  a  blasted 
island?" 

"But  who  am  I  to  ask?"  said  Vi,  tearfully.  "We 
don't  know  anybody." 

"Don't  know  anybody,"  said  Bulmer,  contemp- 
tuously. "Of  course  one's  got  to  begin  to  know 
people  before  one  knows  them.  One's  not  born  with 
a  visiting-list.     Ask  the  whole  damned  directory." 

"You're  joking,"  said  Vi,  offended. 

"Don't  be  silly !  If  you  ask  everybody  in  Mayfair 
and  Belgravia  three-quarters  of  them  won't  answer, 

174 


*8  UPPER  BROOK  STREET  ^ 

and  the  other  quarter  '11  come.  Some  of  them  be- 
cause there'll  be  something  to  eat.  Some  of  them 
because  they're  afraid  that  if  they  don't  come  the 
Daily  Gazette  will  serve  them  out.  Some  of  them 
because  they've  got  nothing  else  to  do  that  night 
and  can't  bear  to  stick  at  home." 

In  the  end,  however,  Bulmer  realized  that  society, 
like  newspapers  or  cobbling,  is  best  run  by  experts. 
He  had  two  of  them  at  hand.  One  was  Lady  Maud 
Redgrave,  the  middle-aged  daughter  of  a  marquess, 
who  had  insisted  on  selling  him  stale  society  news 
at  high  prices.  He  took  Lady  Maud  out  to  lunch 
at  Claridge's,  and  quiet  arrangements  were  made, 
following  on  which  the  society  news  was  suppressed 
and  heavy  compensation  was  given.  Lady  Maud 
wTas  very  pleased,  and  assured  Bulmer  that  not  only 
would  her  father  and  mother  come,  but  many  other 
more  or  less  hungry  and  titled  relatives,  and  .  .  . 

"Of  course,"  said  Lady  Maud,  "in  these  days 
people  are  so  informal.  I  don't  say,  Mr.  Bul- 
mer, that  if  this  had  happened  ten  years  ago,  it 
would  have  been  quite  so  easy.  But  this  is  1902, 
you  see.  One  must  march  with  the  times.  These 
are  the  days  of  democracy." 

Finally,  Lady  Maud's  small  visiting-list  and  her 
enormous  nodding  acquaintance  were  included. 

Meanwhile,  Colonel  Bagshot,  the  colonel  made  of 

polished  brown  wood,  removed  his  incrusted  monocle 

after  a  further  sitting  in  Bulmer's  hall.     After  a 

large  number  of  haw-haws,  and  "my  dear  fellas," 

and  references  to  the  best  people,  he  practically 

produced  a  tariff  per  head,  without  extra  charge  for 

evening  dress. 

175 


*g  CALIBAN 


"You  might  do  something"  he  added,  vaguely. 
"Give  'em  a  sorter  reason  to  come.  Buy  a  Rem- 
brandt, you  know,  or  go  in  for  cream-colored  ponies 
or  somethin'!" 

Bulmer  had  no  time  to  bother  about  Rembrandts 
or  ponies.  He  relied  only  on  the  vanity  of  man. 
He  calmly  asked  the  whole  Cabinet,  the  leaders  of 
the  Opposition,  all  the  embassies,  and  scattered 
careless  cards  over  Who's  Who.  Nor  was  he  mis- 
taken in  his  estimates,  for,  on  the  night— a  warm 
June  evening — there  was  no  standing-room  in  the 
house,  while  carriages  overflowed  from  the  side 
turnings  from  Hanover  to  Grosvenor  Square.  He 
was  very  happy,  though  all  the  time  he  wanted  to 
get  away  to  see  the  Daily  Gazette  through  the  press. 
He  hated  to  let  Swinbrook  do  what  he  liked  with  it. 
And  he  was  nervous.  He  was  afraid  that  the  society 
reporters  in  the  hall  would  fail  to  recognize  some 
celebrity.  Also,  he  felt  rather  strange,  though  he 
had  got  over  the  difficulties  of  introduction  by  shak- 
ing hands  with  everybody,  and  hoping  that  they 
would  recognize  him  from  the  numerous  photographs 
of  himself  which  he  had  scattered  about  the  house; 
this  conveyed  the  strength  of  his  conjugal  affections, 
for  everybody  would  conclude  that  they  had  been 
put  there  by  Vi.  For  a  moment  he  stood  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  big  drawing-room,  pleased  and  uneasy. 
To  his  surprise,  this  refined  party  bellowed  more 
loudly  than  any  social.  He  had  hired  some  very 
expensive  singers,  but  he  did  not  mind  the  waste, 
for  he  knew  that  music  made  people  talk.  And, 
anyhow,  nobody  could  miss  the  Blue  Hungarian 
band  on  the  leads;  nothing  but  artillery  could  have' 

176 


*8?  UPPER  BROOK  STREET  °g 

stifled  that.  The  women  were  splendid,  and  at  first 
aloof,  women  different  from  those  he  had  known. 
Lady  Maud  was  very  impressive  in  rich  yellow 
satin,  appliqued  with  white  silk  motifs;  a  shy  blonde 
in  ivory  silk,  her  bodice  veiled  with  lace  and  strapped 
with  turquoise  panne,  made  him  feel  crude.  And 
there  was  a  peeress  of  recent  creation,  a  splendid 
creature  in  black  satin  veiled  with  a  tunic  of  chenille. 
They  thronged  about  him,  colored,  scented;  some 
haughty,  many  fulsome,  conquered  and  conquering. 
He  had  not  before  now  realized  how  small  women 
could  make  their  waists,  and  how  dominating  their 
busts.  His  eyes  rested  in  bewilderment  rather  than 
desire  on  these  massive  shoulders  and  thick  arms, 
those  necks  collared  with  pearls,  that  shining  hair, 
dressed  high,  sometimes  crowned  with  tiaras,  some- 
times with  ostrich  feathers.  Vi  was  very  handsome, 
but  looked  swarthy  in  her  gown  of  pink-and-white 
striped  moire,  with  ruches  of  chiffon.  She  was  more 
at  ease  than  he.  Having  begun  shyly,  she  realized 
that  the  damage  was  now  done,  and  as  she  was  being 
profusely  introduced  by  Lady  Maud  and  Colonel 
Bagshot,  she  realized,  with  the  dawning  contempt 
which  is  the  seed  of  social  success,  that  under- 
secretaries will  fight  for  ices. 

So  the  social  life  went  on  as  it  had  begun.  An 
extraordinarily  expensive  chef  was  bribed  away  from 
a  big  hotel,  and  the  publicity  given  to  the  guests  at 
Buhner's  dinner-parties  was  such  that  by  degrees 
hardly  anybody  refused  an  invitation.  Within  a 
year  Vi,  still  clumsy,  still  entirely  incompetent,  was 
driving  every  afternoon  to  a  variety  of  at-homes. 
Several  times  a  week  Bulmer  would  escape  for  an 

177 


*%  CALIBAN  °£ 

hour  from  the  office  to  appear  at  some  at-home,  at 
a  first  night,  or  at  the  opera.  He  was  doing  this 
now  without  knowing  why  he  did  it,  for  he  was  of 
those  who  violently  desire  a  thing  until  they  obtain 
it,  and  then  desire  it  no  more.  Besides,  his  interests 
were  changing;  he  had  started  the  Daily  Gazette  in 
a  zip  mood,  and  for  a  little  while  it  looked  like  a 
weekly  paper  issued  every  day.  He  was  still  a  child, 
for  he  had  unlimited  wonder,  insatiable  curiosity, 
bat  he  did  not  wonder  in  the  abstract,  or  prostrate 
his  spirit  before  the  singularity  of  man  and  the 
mystery  of  beauty.  Always  his  curiosity  led  him  to 
such  questions  as  "Is  Latin  worth  while?"  "Do 
girls  prefer  clean-shaven  men?"  "Should  women 
smoke?"  The  fate  of  the  world,  the  significance  of 
life,  were  not  things  that  troubled  him,  but  he  was 
excited  by  the  relationship  between  material  things 
and  material  persons.  It  was  Swinbrook  deflected 
him,  for  Swinbrook,  very  Scotch,  very  obstinate, 
and  extraordinarily  reliable,  looked  upon  politics  as 
the  duty  of  man.  He  became  very  familiar  with 
Bulmer  because  he  was  constructive.  He  did  not 
irritate  him  as  did  Ormesby,  who  was  always  able 
to  explain  why  a  thing  couldn't  be  done;  Swinbrook, 
in  his  conferences  with  Bulmer,  was  continually 
pressing  him  to  cut  out  some  of  the  woman's  page 
and  to  take  a  political  line. 

"Well,  we're  Liberals,"  said  Bulmer,  exasperated. 

"We're  not.  We're  only  non-Tory.  Oh,  I  know 
we're  independent.  But  one  can't  stay  independent. 
It's  the  one  thing  democracy  won't  allow." 

"Ob,  we  don't  want  to  stuff  the  paper  with  in- 
digestible stuff  about  education  and  all  that." 

178 


^  UPPER  BROOK  STREET  12 

Swinbrook  won  by  degrees,  for  Bulmer  could  not 
resist  taking  up  a  cause.  He  did  not  much  care 
what  cause,  but  he  realized  that  unless  he  backed 
something  he  couldn't  bash  something  else;  the  exag- 
geration of  his  feelings  impelled  him  to  bash.  Already 
he  lacked  coolness,  and  was  influenced  by  his  own 
papers,  for,  having  raised  a  scare  over  Irish  unrest, 
he  was  thrown  into  a  state  of  delighted  terror  by  a 
cattle-drive  near  Kilkenny  and  a  little  rick-burning 
in  County  Cork. 

"It's  revolution,"  he  said  to  Swinbrook.  "The 
country  is  going  to  be  drowned  in  blood." 

Swinbrook  laughed  at  him,  and  persuaded  him 
that  in  this  world  there  never  was  a  revolution  until 
it  happened.  He  found  his  chief  difficult  to  control, 
because  Bulmer  scared  himself  with  his  own  scares. 
But  he  liked  him.  Old  in  his  trade,  he  enjoyed  the 
vivacity  of  this  young  man  who  exuded  ideas  and 
excitements  on  the  slightest  stimulus.  He  liked  to 
comfort  Bulmer  when  four  thousand  miners  struck 
in  South  Wales  and  his  young  chief  assured  him 
that  socialism  would  be  established  next  week. 
He  liked  to  restore  his  confidence  in  mankind,  shat- 
tered by  some  corruption  case.  When  such  a  case 
grew  public  Bulmer  always  declared  that  the  com- 
mercial world  was  rotten  to  the  core,  and  insisted 
on  flaming  articles  denouncing  the  canker  of  the 
city.  Sometimes  he  irritated  Swinbrook,  who, 
toward  the  end  of  the  year,  nearly  left  the  Daily 
Gazette.  Bulmer  had  instructed  him  to  take  a  strong 
line  in  favor  of  coloring  margarine  either  deep  yellow 
or  pale  pink,  so  as  to  make  it  impossible  to  pass  it 

off  as  butter.     Accidentally  Silas  Hassop  saw  the 

179 


%  CALIBAN  *8? 

copy  on  Ormesby's  desk,  and,  terrified,  rang  up 
Bulmer,  explaining  that  the  margarine  firms  would 
be  furious,  and  that  this  would  cost  the  Gazette 
ten  or  twelve  thousand  a  year  in  advertise- 
ments. After  a  long  argument,  which  Bulmer 
maintained  because  he  hated  to  be  opposed,  he  told 
the  advertisement  manager  to  tell  Swinbrook  to  hold 
up  the  article.  The  same  evening  Bulmer,  at  a  club 
dinner,  sat  next  to  the  under-secretary  in  charge  of 
the  bill.  The  politician,  aware  of  his  opportu- 
nity, turned  Bulmer  in  favor  of  peculiar  colors  for 
margarine. 

When,  next  morning,  Bulmer  opened  his  Daily 
Gazette  and  found  no  article  in  support  of  the  bill, 
he  flung  himself  upon  the  telephone  with  insane 
fury.  He  got  Swinbrook  out  of  bed,  only  to  be  told 
that  Hassop  had  given  his  message.  Upon  which 
he  telephoned  Hassop,  and,  taking  no  notice  of  the 
unfortunate  American's  protests,  that  they  had  the 
day  before  settled  to  let  margarine  alone,  he  shouted : 

"How  dare  you  say  that  I  said  the  article  wasn't 
to  go  in?  How  dare  you  suggest  I'd  be  influenced 
in  my  policy  by  a  question  of  advertisements?"  He 
repeatedly  interrupted  Hassop,  and  again  and  again 
challenged  him  to  dare  to  say  that  he  had  altered 
his  orders,  to  dare  to  suggest  that  he,  Richard  Bul- 
mer, had  changed  his  mind  or  had  been  wrong. 
Finally  he  slammed  the  receiver  down,  and  had  his 
breakfast,  greatly  injured  by  the  idiotic,  literal  spirit 
of  his  underlings.  He  felt  right  because  he  could 
not  conceive  himself  in  the  wrong.  It  was  not  that 
he  lacked  modesty;  indeed,  he  received  the  most 
obscure  strangers  and  questioned  them,  anxious  to 

180 


*$  UPPER  BROOK  STREET  % 

find  out  all  they  knew  of  mining  in  Arizona,  training 
peach-trees,  or  living  happily,  though  married.  But 
his  modesty  was  the  Daily  Gazette  modesty;  he  was 
modest  because  he  wanted  information  as  an  offer- 
ing at  the  shrine  of  the  newspaper  god;  he  wanted 
no  guidance  for  himself,  and  when  he  had  this  in- 
formation, if  anything  in  it  affronted  by  prejudices, 
he  distorted  it  to  fit  the  policy  of  the  Daily  Gazette, 
because  the  policy  of  the  paper  was  its  soul,  and 
nothing  repulsive  could  be  laid  before  it.  Then,  once 
it  was  in  the  paper  it  was  true,  and  he  believed  it 
because  Bulmer  was  his  own  newspaper  as  soon  as 
his  newspaper  appeared. 

It  was,  therefore,  a  stormy,  irregular  guidance 
he  gave  the  paper,  but  somehow  it  fitted  the  people 
and  the  times.  He  knew  their  slackness  of  mind 
and  their  hysteria,  because  his  own  mind  was  care- 
less of  detail  and  easily  shaken.  So  he  never  tried 
them  too  far,  which  Swinbrook  was  inclined  to  do. 

"Hang  it  all,"  said  Swinbrook,  "you  can't  write 
a  political  article  that  Tl  be  understood  by  telegraph 
boys." 

"Then  if  it  can't  be  understood  by  telegraph 
boys,"  said  Buhner,  "let  it  go;  it's  no  use  to  us. 
But,  Swinbrook,  I  say  it  can  be  understood.  If 
you've  got  unusual  ideas  you  must  put  them  in  such 
a  way  as  to  be  understood  by  usual  people.  Never 
go  ahead  as  fast  as  you  might,  for  the  public  never 
goes  quite  as  fast  as  you.  You  can  only  get  ahead 
of  public  opinion  by  swimming  up-stream;  it's  very 
tiring.  And  nobody  will  follow  vou,  because  it's  too 
tiring." 

"You    don't    suggest    we    should    swim   down- 

181 


°S  CALIBAN  °$ 

stream?"  sneered  Swinbrook.  "Like  the  Conserv- 
atives." 

"No.  Everybody  wants  to  swim  up-stream,  and 
nobody  wants  to  do  the  work.  If  you've  got  a 
political  line,  swim  across  the  stream,  a  bit  up 
rather  than  down.  The  public  can  just  about  man- 
age that.  And  once  every  three  months  swim  up- 
stream for  a  week,  just  to  show  'em  you  can  do  it." 

He  impressed  his  staff  by  this  contemptuous 
clarhVy,  and  soon  stories  began  to  radiate  about  him; 
Napoleonic  remarks,  mainly.  For  he  began  to  cul- 
tivate these,  and  his  vanity  enlarged.  Quite  seri- 
ously he  told  Linton  that  he  was  the  best-known 
man  in  London. 

"I  can't  go  down  Pall  Mall,"  he  said,  "without 
some  man  jerking  his  head  toward  me  and  saying 
to  his  friend:  'Look,  that's  Bulmer.  Runs  the 
Daily  Gazette.     He's  the  coming  man.'  " 

His  staff  did  not  mind  his  boasting,  for  he  was 
charming  as  a  child  that  demands  attention  when  at 
last  it  manages  to  ride  a  bicycle.  Sometimes  his 
vanity  was  hurt ;  already  a  member  of  the  Automo- 
bile Club  and  of  the  Gadarene,  he  was  blackballed  at 
the  Mausoleum.  He  had  tried  it  too  early;  thence- 
forth he  devoted  valuable  scraps  of  space  to  the 
august  stupidity,  to  the  lumpishness  of  the  Mauso- 
leum Club.  He  was  the  original  author  of  the  story 
which  makes  a  member  of  the  Mausoleum  Club 
ring  for  the  waiter  and  say  to  him,  pointing  at  a 
fellow-member:  "Charles,  please  take  that  gentle- 
man away.     He's  been  dead  for  two  days." 

In  fact,  he  was  happy  in  this  life  akin  to  a  bazaar. 
Not  only  were  his  papers  rising  in  circulation,  not 

182 


H  UPPER  BROOK  STREET  *» 

only  was  he  achieving  the  flattery  of  a  number  of 
enemies,  but  he  discovered  the  joy  of  buying.  In 
the  early  days  he  bought,  with  the  avidity  of  a  mag- 
pie, quantities  of  clothes,  fancy  socks  and  ties,  ex- 
pensive jewelry,  things  he  used  once  and  then  for- 
got (they  were  eventually  stolen  by  his  valet).  In 
those  months  he  bought  a  cottage  in  Sussex  and  a 
shooting-box  in  Scotland.  Then  sold  them,  for  at  that 
time  he  never  left  London.  He  bought  thousands  of 
books  which  he  never  read,  collected  editions  bound 
in  white  vellum,  and  amazing  compilations  of  Napo- 
leonic and  Bismarckian  intrigue.  When  he  could 
buy  nothing  else  he  bought  a  newspaper;  when  it 
was  ill  edited  he  laughed,  when  it  was  well  edited 
he  swore.  Newspapers  fed  his  appetite.  He  re- 
ceived newspapers  from  America,  from  every  coun- 
try in  the  world,  even  Japan.  He  could  not  read 
them  all  in  their  languages,  but  their  strange  make- 
up, the  feel  of  their  smudged  pages,  gave  him  a  little 
sensual  thrill.  Every  hour  brought  its  excitement, 
and  every  night  its  joyful  weariness. 
13 


Chapter  III 
Politics 

IT  was  characteristic  of  Bulmer  that  he  liked  his 
staff.  It  was  not  that  he  doubted  himself;  in- 
deed, if  an  employee  criticized  or  qualified  some 
suggestion,  he  was  half  angry,  half  injured.  He  was 
angry  because  he  was  opposed,  and  injured  because 
it  hurt  him  to  be  deprived  of  approval.  He  never 
made  much  concession  to  the  views  of  his  editors, 
and  so  often  he  would  spend  half  an  hour  in  verbose 
restatements  of  his  case,  whirling  facts,  throwing  out 
with  broad  indiscretion  statements  that  were  not 
Cabinet  secrets,  but  which  had  come  to  him  through 
officials  in  a  semi-confidential  garb.  When  he  failed 
to  convince  or  impose  his  will,  he  was  for  the  rest  of 
the  day  oppressed  by  a  feeling  that  the  man  who  had 
escaped  him  did  not  believe  in  him.  It  was  very  pain- 
ful, for,  after  all,  his  staff  were  members  of  the  pub- 
lic, and  the  public  had  no  right  to  doubt  him.  That 
was  perhaps  why  he  liked  Singleton,  the  news  sub., 
almost  as  much  as  Swinbrook.  For  Singleton  was 
completely  malleable,  and  almost  invariably  replied, 
"Boss,  you're  right."  Singleton  honestly  thought 
that  the  boss  was  right,  but  he  said  so  more  often 
than  anybody  else.  He  was  a  young  man,  had  been 
a  reporter  on  a  bicycle  in  the  Midlands,  had  earned 

184 


*g  POLITICS  H 

an  uncertain  living,  sometimes  as  a  racing  prophet, 
sometimes  as  a  reviewer  on  religious  weeklies.  Bul- 
mer  picked  him  up  when  he  was  an  advertisement 
writer,  having  been  enchanted  by  a  parody  of  Ham- 
let's soliloquy  which  advertised  a  well-known  brand 
of  mustard.  When  he  interviewed  him  he  discovered 
his  experience,  and  said,  a  la  Napoleon: 

"I'll  make  you  news  editor."  As  if  he  nad  said, 
"Rise,  Sir  James  Singleton." 

Jimmy  Singleton,  thanks  to  this  favor,  practically 
duplicated  Ash,  by  stunts.  He  was  valuable  to  Bul- 
mer,  infinitely  inquisitive,  entirely  callous.  His  de- 
termination to  obtain  the  views  of  widows  before 
their  husbands  (killed  on  the  railway)  were  quite 
cold  aroused  the  admiration  of  Buhner.  Also,  he 
had  a  pleasant  taste  in  sensation,  and  made  the 
Daily  Gazette  police  news  wage  successful  competi- 
tion with  that  of  the  Daily  Telegraph.  Latterly  he 
had  been  specializing  in  divorce,  because  this  enabled 
him  to  hold  up  to  a  shocked  but  delighted  public 
the  worst  details  and  the  noblest  sentiments.  This, 
perhaps,  had  something  to  do  with  the  political  de- 
velopment of  the  Daily  Gazette.  One  day  he  printed 
a  long  report  of  the  irregularities  of  a  Welsh  Non- 
conformist minister. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Bulmer.  "I'm  not  blaming 
you.  Only,  you  see,  next  time,  when  you've  got  the 
option  between  a  peer  and  a  pastor,  well,  bash  the 
peer." 

"All  right,  boss,  though  of  course  you  know 
there's  nothing  like  a  touch  of  religion  to  make  a 
sex  story  spicy." 

"Yes,  I  know.    If  it  was  the  Church  of  England, 

185 


*  CALIBAN  "£ 

I  shouldn't  mind  so  much.  And  if  you  catch  a  car- 
dinal on  the  hop,  well,  keep  him  hopping.  But  let 
the  Nonconformists  alone.  After  all,  we're  a  Liberal 
paper." 

"Yes,  boss,"  said  Singleton,  "you're  quite  right, 
though  we  haven't  so  much  political  news." 

Buhner  said  nothing,  but  thought  a  good  deal 
about  this  for  a  few  days.  He  didn't  really  want 
political  news,  but  it  annoyed  him  that  Singleton 
should  say  that  the  Daily  Gazette  didn't  have  a  lot 
of  everything.  He  talked  to  Ash  about  it  a  little 
later,  saying,  abruptly: 

"It's  all  very  well  our  being  political.  But  it 
compromises  one." 

"You  mean,"  said  Ash,  "that  popular  feeling  may 
turn." 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  if  popular  feeling  turns.  I'll 
turn  first.    It's  not  that.    It  ties  you  down." 

And  yet,  before  1902  was  done,  the  Daily  Gazette 
became  excessively  political.  Liberalism  was  natu- 
ral in  Bulmer.  The  membership  of  a  party  being 
made  up  of  two  categories — one  which  supports  its 
party  because  it  loves  it,  the  other,  much  larger, 
which  supports  its  party  because  it  hates  the  opposi- 
tion— Bulmer  was  a  Liberal  because,  like  Stendhal's 
hero,  Sorel,  he  was  a  man  conscious  of  low  degree 
and  of  high  attainments.  He  was  attaining,  and  he 
knew  that  already  people  respected  him  more  than 
any  backwoods  peer,  but  he  hated  the  class  which 
he  was  entering  because  he  had  had  to  enter  it.  He 
was  established  in  the  country  of  wealth  and  power, 
but  not  as  a  citizen  born  within  its  frontiers;  he  was 
a  soldier  who  had  conquered  that  country,  and  from 

186 


*g  POLITICS  * 

time  to  time  tested  the  dryness  of  his  powder  lest  the 
natives,  slavish  and  hostile,  should  rise  against  him. 

But  these  were  vague  feelings.  What  actually 
drove  Bulmer  into  violent  Liberalism  was  Lord 
Immingham.  He  had  only  seen  the  famous  general 
once,  at  a  political  lunch-party.  He  did  not  like 
his  face,  the  large,  rather  square  head,  the  thick 
cheeks,  the  mouth  which,  under  the  heavy  mustache, 
seemed  contemptuous;  above  all,  he  hated  the  cold, 
hard  eyes,  and  the  heavy  eyelid  that  drooped  over 
a  gaze  full  of  indifference.  What  maddened  Bulmer 
was  that  the  speaker  who  toasted  Lord  Immingham 
said  a  few  rather  aggressive  things  against  the  gov- 
ernment's policy,  of  which  Immingham  had  been 
the  instrument  in  South  Africa.  When  the  general 
rose  to  reply  he  made  no  reference  whatever  to  those 
attacks.  In  a  hoarse,  tired  voice,  he  pronounced 
three  sentences  of  thanks,  and  sat  down,  looking  at 
the  wall  as  if  he  had  forgotten  that  two  hundred 
people  were  gathered  about  him. 

Immingham  exasperated  Bulmer,  for  he  was  not 
impressed  by  people  who  said  nothing ;  he  concluded 
that  they  had  nothing  to  say.  And  Lord  Imming- 
ham stank  of  Toryism,  of  crack  regiments,  raised 
noble  eyebrows.  The  sight  of  this  self-assured,  solid 
figure  drove  Bulmer  toward  the  rising  working-man, 
likely  to  keep  a  shop  or  run  a  big  factory,  but  un- 
likely to  take  his  place  among  the  bigwigs,  with  th en- 
titles and  garters  and  brochettes  of  medals.  It 
then  occurred  to  Bulmer  that  he  would  like  a  title 
himself.  That  did  not  prevent  him  feeling  demo- 
cratic; he  was  democratic  for  others. 

Those  political  activities  helped  Bulmer  at  what 

187 


*S?  CALIBAN  U 

might  have  been  a  crisis  in  his  life.  Quite  suddenly, 
after  seven  years  of  matrimony,  for  a  reason  which 
seemed  small  but  was  rooted  in  deep  causes,  Vi  left 
him.  The  breach  seemed  to  arise  from  a  mistake 
Vi  made  at  lunch.  Bulmer,  having  discovered  the 
smart  lunch-party,  entertained  ten  carefully  selected 
guests,  a  political  peer  and  his  wife,  three  rising 
capitalists  and  the  wives  they  had  married  before 
they  rose,  a  well-known  lady  novelist,  and  an  A.  R.  A. 
A  microcosm  of  English  society.  Now,  Vi  figured 
fairly  well  at  evening  parties,  partly  because  she  had 
fine  shoulders  and  arms,  and  partly  because  there 
excess  did  not  matter  much.  At  lunch  she  appeared 
in  an  afternoon  dress,  against  which  there  was  noth- 
ing to  say,  for  Vi  was  completely  controlled  by  her 
dressmaker;  but  she  wore  nearly  all  her  jewelry. 
Suddenly,  in  the  middle  of  lunch,  Bulmer  compared 
her  with  the  other  women.  She  was  wearing  three 
bracelets,  a  collar  of  pearls,  two  diamond  brooches, 
and  many  rings.  For  some  time  he  gazed  with 
aversion  at  those  jeweled  hands,  telling  himself  in 
ejaculations  which  nearly  became  audible:  "Wom- 
an's mad!  unteachable!  Make  us  the  laughing-stock 
of  the  town!"  At  last  he  grew  so  angry  that  he  did 
not  look  at  her  again  until  the  guests  were  gone. 
Then  he  slammed  the  door  and,  practically  running 
to  and  fro  in  the  drawing-room,  told  her  in  a  speech 
abundantly  garnished  with  oaths  that  she  looked 
like  a  publican's  wife  and  behaved  like  one.  That 
he  was  sick  of  it.  And  sick  of  her.  And  that  she 
could  go  to  hell  for  all  he  cared. 
He   was   amazed   when  Vi  took  it  quietly  and 

replied : 

188 


*8  POLITICS 


"So  am  I  sick  of  it.  So  am  I  sick  of  you.  You 
treat  me  like  a  bit  of  furniture.  Might  as  well  not 
be  there.  Yes,  I'll  go.  May  as  well  separate,  for  all 
the  good  we're  doing  together." 

Buhner  was  shocked  into  silence.  It  was  strange 
to  see  loose  language  freezing  into  material  form. 
But  that  was  not  the  end.  With  sudden  shrillness, 
Vi,  her  dark  cheeks  red-brown,  her  hands  on  her 
hips,  let  forth  all  that  she  had  suffered  for  seven 
years  by  loneliness,  by  exile  into  a  class  which  was 
not  hers;  she  was  too  big,  too  angry  to  be  pathetic; 
she  abused  him,  inflamed  by  a  sense  of  wrong,  be- 
cause he  had  torn  her  from  the  place  to  which  she 
belonged,  and  given  her  no  other.  He  had  sus- 
pended her  in  a  new  life.  When  she  grew  breath- 
less Bulmer  said: 

"All  right.  Since  we're  agreed,  it's  no  use  arguing. 
Let  me  know  your  address  and  I'll  see  you  get  a 
good  allowance." 

The  shock  hung  over  him  as  be  went  to  the  Daily 
Gazette.  He  felt  uprooted.  Probably  it  was  not 
true.  She  wouldn't  go.  She  knew  which  side  her 
bread  was  buttered.  Still  he  was  afraid  that  she 
might  go.  It  would  make  a  scandal.  And  he  wished 
she  would  go;  her  brooding  sulkiness  sickened  him, 
now  that  he  knew  she  felt  wronged.  But,  above 
all,  he  was  insulted  because  he  had  failed  to  provide 
her  with  the  life  she  wanted,  because  he  had  mis- 
gaged  her.     Vi,  too,  was  part  of  the  public. 

From  time  to  time  in  the  following  weeks  he  felt 

a  little  ache.     He  did  not  miss  her,  exactly;  he  was 

too   busy    to   miss   human   beings.     But   she   had 

eluded  him;  she  had  not  loved  him  or  gone  on  loving 

189 


% CALIBAN g 

him.  And  it  was  so  hard  not  to  be  loved,  not  to 
impose  oneself  upon  an  available  sentiment. 

It  was  this,  perhaps,  combined  with  other  factors, 
drove  him  into  politics.  He  had  nothing  much  to 
gain  in  the  way  of  money,  for  he  was  drawing  twelve 
thousand  a  year  from  the  Daily  Gazette;  his  own  six 
publications  yielded  him  another  nine  thousand; 
Mr.  Cole  and  Mr.  Wartle  had  long  ago  been  bought 
out.  He  still  desired  money  because  money  was  the 
evidence  of  power.  If  one  made  money  out  of  news- 
papers, it  meant  that  people  read  them,  people  be- 
lieved in  them,  followed  them.  There  was  no  other 
test.  So  the  winter  was  occupied  by  savage  attacks 
on  the  Education  Act  put  up  by  the  Unionist  Gov- 
ernment. Bulmer  left  to  the  Daily  News  and  the  Daily 
Chronicle  the  solid  case  for  popular  control  of  the 
schools,  and  concentrated  on  the  delicious  exercise 
of  vilifying  the  Church  party.  By  degrees  his  spe- 
cial writers  dug  up  every  known  case  of  clerical 
tyranny,  whether  in  the  schools,  on  the  land,  or  in 
charitable  institutions.  He  cared  nothing  for  relig- 
ious questions,  but  by  degrees  he  convinced  himself 
through  the  Daily  Gazette  that  the  cleric  in  the 
schools  was  something  bloated  and  obscene,  a  slug 
with  a  touch  of  octopus.  He  engaged  learned  old 
men  from  the  Rationalist  Association,  who  quoted 
everv  day  choice  scraps  of  Haeckel  and  Voltaire. 

"Voltaire!"  he  said,  "that'll  fetch  the  brainy 
lot." 

But  Bulmer  did  not  bother  much  about  the  brainy 
lot;  there  weren't  enough  of  them.  His  appeal  was 
entirely  to  the  mob.  He  was  one  of  the  first  to 
introduce  a  daily  cartoon  into  a  halfpenny  paper, 

190 


«  POLITICS  « 

having  discovered  an  amazingly  fecund  young  Cana- 
dian, who  signed  himself  "Rob"  and  executed 
exactly  what  the  boss  dreamed. 

"Got  to  get  a  standard  Church  schoolmaster. 
See  what  I  mean?  Something  people  '11  recognize 
at  sight  like  Mr.  Pickwick.  Or  the  Sleeping  Beauty. 
I  want  a  foxy-looking  individual.  See  what  I  mean? 
Nosing  about  and  getting  hold  of  the  people's  money 
for  the  Church  schools.  That's  it.  You  give  him  a 
fox's  head  and  stick  a  shovel  hat  on  top.  And  the 
eye:  mind  you,  give  him  a  sly  eye.  You  know  how 
to  do  it;  sort  of  eye  that  looks  backward,  as  if  it  was 
afraid  the  police  was  after  it.     See  what  I  mean?" 

"Rob"  saw  what  Bulmer  meant,  and  soon  the 
shovel-hatted  fox  was  so  popular  that  a  toy  manu- 
facturer sold  great  quantities  of  models  of  "Rob's" 
creation  outside  Hyde  Park,  when  demonstrations 
took  place  against  the  bill. 


Chapter  IV 
Sisters  and  Others 

BULMER  did  not  at  first  feel  the  absence  of  Vi. 
She  had  lived  with  him  so  long  that  her  depart- 
ure did  not  break  his  physical  habits;  she  had  dealt 
so  little  with  the  government  of  the  house  that  with- 
out her  it  went  on  much  the  same.  For  Buhner, 
when  taking  the  house,  told  himself  that  he  ought 
to  have  the  usual  servants.  As  he  did  not  know 
what  servants  to  engage,  and  realized  that  Vi  would 
not  rise  beyond  cook,  parlor-maid,  and  housemaid, 
he  went  into  a  registry  office  in  North  Audley  Street, 
the  notices  of  which  had  impressed  him.  He  was 
rather  bewildered  by  the  complexities,  especially  by 
names  such  as  between-maid,  under-nurse,  and  espe- 
cially groom  of  the  chamber.  Footmen,  too,  were 
very  perplexing.  Servants  seemed  as  varied  as  sub- 
editors. And  he  knew  more  about  sub-editors.  So 
he  entered  the  office,  hiding  tremor  under  breez- 
iness,  and  feeling  that  he  was  treading  the  maze  of 
an  intricate  social  system.  It  was  very  easy.  The 
office  grasped  that  his  wife  was  not  well  enough  to 
call.  They  grasped  that  he  was  a  busy  man.  And 
that  he  was  a  rich  man.  They  seemed  to  know  him 
and  his  sort.     So  they  charged  him  heavy  fees,  and, 

within  a  few  days,  Bulmer  had  to  affect  casualness 

192 


*  SISTERS  AND  OTHERS  U 

as  he  met  many  strange  faces  on  the  stairs.  When 
Vi  left  him  there  was  a  housekeeper,  a  butler,  a 
parlor-maid  and  her  underling,  a  head  housemaid 
and  three  attendants  upon  her,  a  cook  of  incom- 
prehensible nationality  but  great  skill,  and  a  tribe 
of  troglodytes,  kitchen-maids,  scullery-maids,  who 
did  something  or  other  round  the  cook  in  the  cata- 
combs of  the  basement. 

For  a  while  everything  went  well,  for  the  house- 
keeper understood  perfectly  that  Mrs.  Bulmer  had 
gone  away  for  the  sake  of  her  health.  Also,  she  was 
a  woman  of  great  ferocity,  with  a  mouth  so  tight 
that  one  concluded  that  her  late  husband  probably 
used  upon  it  a  hammer  and  chisel  in  the  unlikely 
event  of  his  wanting  to  kiss  her.  But  the  house- 
keeper could  not  figure  as  hostess,  and  though  Bul- 
mer at  his  first  dinner-party  asked  an  odd  woman, 
he  realized  that  a  hostess  of  some  sort  must  be  found. 
It  was  very  embarrassing.  He  thought  of  electing 
some  impoverished  titled  lady.  Then  he  realized 
that  everybody  would  say  she  was  to  him  more  than 
a  hostess.  He  also  realized  that  she  probably  would 
become  more  than  a  hostess.  He  didn't  mind  that, 
but  he  didn't  want  to  have  it  said.  A  book  he  had 
glanced  at,  on  the  Regent  and  his  period,  held  up 
the  temptation  of  splendid  and  flaming  irregulari- 
ties. He  pictured  himself  imposing  upon  London 
society,  crawling  before  the  Daily  Gazette,  some 
Spanish  dancer  whom  they  would  accept  because 
he  dared  to  flaunt  her. 

Only  he  knew  that  wouldn't  do  in  the  Liberal 
party;  in  fact,  in  any  party.  A  political  party  ex- 
pects one  to  have  a  door  between  oneself  and  one's 

193 


«  CALIBAN  *$ 

diversions,  even  if  everybody  knows  that  one  has 
the  key. 

It  was  this  brought  him  to  invite  Eleanor  and 
Henrietta  to  keep  house  for  him.  At  least,  he  began 
by  inviting  them,  and  ended  by  coercing  them. 
Hettie  was  willing,  but  Eleanor  clung  to  Carlton 
Vale  much  as  the  old  gentlemen  clung  to  their  office 
in  the  middle  of  the  Daily  Gazette  building.  But 
she  had  given  up  her  piano  lessons,  and  when  Bulmer, 
exasperated,  threatened  to  cut  off  their  allowance, 
she  surrendered,  and  arrived  with  trunks  in  a  state 
that  shocked  the  boot-boy,  and  a  parrot  in  a  cage 
which  later  caused  much  trouble,  because  Bulmer 
influenced  the  bird  to  remark,  at  frequent  intervals, 
"Cock  a  doodle  do!  Daily  Gazetted  It  took  several 
months  to  acclimatize  the  sisters  to  the  spacious  life. 
The  banking  accounts  which  were  forced  on  them 
terrified  them:  such  balances  must  be  ill-gotten. 
The  servants  were  too  many  to  manage,  and  the 
housekeeper  did  not  look  as  if  she  could  be  managed 
at  all.  Also,  they  discovered  the  characters  of  the 
servants:  the  butler  lived  mainly  on  port;  some- 
thing was  going  on  between  the  third  housemaid 
and  the  second  footman,  something  that  seemed  to 
make  them  both  contented  with  the  place,  and  so 
could  not  be  quite  nice;  as  for  the  cook,  she  was  prob- 
ably abusive  in  her  own  language,  but  nobody  knew 
what  that  was.  And  Bulmer  was  not  much  use: 
when  his  sisters  explained,  he  told  them  with  the 
fine  disdain  of  details  which  characterizes  the  male 
householder,  that  the  house  had  gone  on  nicely  for 
two  years,  and  he  wished  to  heaven  thev'd  let  it 
alone. 

194 


jfe SISTERS  AND  OTHERS  H> 

There  was  a  certain  amount  of  trouble  because 
Ellie  tried  to  audit  the  weekly  books,  and  discovered 
that  the  laundry  bill  alone  would  have  run  the  house 
at  Carlton  Vale  for  a  week.  As  for  cigars,  obviously 
the  guests  took  them  away  in  their  pockets,  in 
handfuls. 

"Oh,  let  the  tobacco  alone,"  roared  Buhner. 
"Moss  11  pay  that  sort  of  bill  in  future.  What's  it 
matter  if  they  do  take  'em  away?"  Then  he  grew 
absorbed,  for  he  was  wondering  whether  it  would 
be  good  policy  to  arrange  for  a  special  brand  of 
cigar  with  a  Daily  Gazette  band. 

They  settled  down  by  degrees.  Hettie,  being  of 
a  malleable  disposition,  and  having  always  been 
dented  by  life,  fitted  easily  into  the  massive 
contours  of  the  expensive  life.  She  was  forty- 
one,  and  could  still  dream;  she  very  much  enjoyed 
having  money  to  spend  in  Bond  Street  on  little  bags, 
sachets,  handkerchief  cases,  brushes  with  tortoise- 
shell  backs;  and,  secretly,  after  hanging  for  a  while 
at  a  corner  in  Regent  Street,  she  began  to  buy  scent. 
Also,  she  indulged  in  benefactions,  so  Buhner  handed 
her  the  begging  letters  he  received  every  morning. 
Hettie  was  supposed  to  show  these  to  Eleanor,  who 
belonged  to  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Charity, 
but  she  often  managed  to  hide  one  or  two  in  a  book 
and  benefit  the  unworthy.  By  degrees,  Hettie  col- 
lected committees,  and  soon  filled  in  two  or  three 
afternoons  a  week,  rather  faded,  rather  pretty,  gen- 
erally clad  in  mauve  or  pale  gray,  in  some  Mayfair 
drawing-room,  where  good  works  were  performed 
and  notorieties  achieved.  People  thought  her  sen- 
timental, but  when  she  was  attacked  Hettie  replied: 

195 


%  CALIBAN  *K 

"Poor  people!  It's  not  nice  begging  for  money, 
is  it?    Who'd  do  it  if  they  weren't  poor?" 

So  Hettie  interested  herself  in  orphans,  in  un- 
married mothers,  found  homes  for  inebriates,  and 
legal  defense  for  bullied  wives. 

Eleanor  was  much  more  difficult.  Her  economical 
habit,  notably,  irritated  her  brother,  who  could  not 
understand  why  Hettie  so  easily  became  overdrawn, 
while  Ellie's  balance  was  turning  into  a  permanent 
institution. 

"Oh,  do  go  out  and  spend  something,"  he  said, 
once,  after  meeting  her  in  the  hall  carrying  a  brown 
paper  parcel  containing  an  egg-box.  "What's  that? 
An  egg-box!  I  say,  Ellie,  you  know,  you  collect  egg- 
boxes.  It's  like  that  time  years  ago  when  you  sent 
those  twelve  pots  of  jam  to  Mrs.  Feltham,  through 
Polly.  You  remember,  you  made  Polly  bring  back 
the  box." 

"That  was  for  a  different  reason,"  said  Eleanor. 
"I  didn't  want  Mrs.  Feltham  to  have  the  trouble  of 
posting  it  back." 

"No,  but  you  didn't  mind  Polly  having  the  trouble 
of  bringing  it  back,  let  alone  that  it  could  have  gone 
by  rail." 

Eleanor  did  not  reply.  She  had  always  sent  par- 
cels through  relatives,  for  she  still  lived  in  the  illusion 
that  postage  was  as  expensive  as  in  Victorian  times. 
As  for  Polly,  she  said: 

"Why  shouldn't  Polly  have  the  trouble  of  bring- 
ing back  the  box?    She  was  a  relation." 

Bulmer  argued  a  little.  He  did  not  know  why  it 
irritated  him  that  Eleanor  should  assume  that  she 
had  the  right  to  worry  her  relations.    She  had  told 

196 


°g  SISTERS  AND  OTHERS  °$ 

him  before  that  relations  were  part  of  oneself.  Yes, 
she  was  very  difficult.  She  was  humble  and  aggres- 
sive, and  once  her  support  was  enlisted  she  grew 
entirely  unjust.  Having  discovered  the  irregulari- 
ties of  the  butler,  the  housemaid,  and  the  footmen, 
and  knowing  nothing  against  the  others,  she  con- 
cluded that  they  were  perfect.  Eleanor  was  blind 
to  their  faults  as  well  as  to  their  qualities.  She  lived 
in  a  black-and-white  world.  When  attacked,  she 
always  justified  her  prejudices  in  favor  of  or  against 
a  person  by  displaying  the  other  side.  If  one  went 
on  attacking  her  she  thought  one  was  calling  her  a 
fool.  So  Eleanor  made  few  friends;  she  was  not 
naturally  hostile,  but  people  disappointed  her.  First, 
she  failed  to  understand  them,  and  assumed  in  them 
inhuman  goodness;  then  she  found  them  out.  If 
she  had  been  more  sagacious  she  would  have  drawn 
away  from  all  her  fellow-creatures.  For  a  time  it 
looked  as  if  Miss  Brede,  who  lived  in  the  country  and 
had  rigid  views  as  to  the  lower  classes,  would  become 
her  friend.  Together  they  went  twice  to  the  British 
Museum,  and  once  to  the  Albert  Hall  on  Sunday 
afternoon.  But  at  last  Miss  Brede  showed  her 
humanity  by  coming  up  to  town,  going  to  a  dance, 
and  coming  very  near  to  getting  engaged.  She  then 
attempted  to  get  Eleanor  to  prove  an  alibi,  so  that 
her  mother,  who  was  then  in  town,  might  not  know 
that  her  daughter  had  not  come  to  her  at  once. 

"Til  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Eleanor.  "I 
think  you  have  done  very  wrong.  You  have  a  duty 
to  your  parents,  who  have  to  support  you  and  edu- 
cate you.    You  don't  seem  to  think  you  owe  them 

anything." 

197 


*g  CALIBAN  *g 

"Well,  I  don't  owe  them  everything,"  said  Miss 
Brede. 

"You  owe  them  companionship,"  said  Eleanor. 

"I  give  them  a  lot,  poor  dears,"  said  Miss  Brede, 
"and  as  we  generally  quarrel  I  don't  think  they 
want  so  much  more." 

So  Eleanor  lost  Miss  Brede.  Besides,  she  had 
never  liked  her  way  of  never  looking  at  a  mirror, 
because,  as  she  said,  she  had  a  snub  nose.  Eleanor 
thought  it  right  to  look  at  oneself  in  the  glass  if  one 
thought  oneself  ugly;   it  prevented  conceit. 

So  Eleanor,  unable  to  control  the  household,  dis- 
approving of  the  surrounding  waste,  had  very  little 
to  do,  and  indulged  enormously  in  fancy  work.  Bul- 
mer  gained  a  smile  from  the  fine  cut  lips  when  once 
he  handed  her  The  Modern  Priscilla,  straight  from 
America,  a  publication  entirely  devoted  to  fancy 
work.  He  was  not  so  displeased  with  her  as  he 
thought  he  would  be,  for  after  a  long  struggle,  during 
which  Hettie  wept,  Eleanor  was  persuaded  to  give 
up  her  former  type  of  evening  frock,  which  was  too 
low  for  the  day  and  too  high  for  the  night.  Experi- 
ence forced  her  into  a  modern  gown,  where,  to  her 
brother's  surprise,  she  exhibited  delicate  and  palely 
yellowish  arms  and  shoulders,  She  was  forty-three, 
but  the  rigidity  of  her  life  went  well  with  her  fine 
eyes  and  her  high  nose.  Now  that  her  hair  was 
washed  and  waved  she  was  rather  an  impressive 
figure,  and  though  she  frequently  abused  his  policy, 
though  she  detested  the  Daily  Gazette  and  even  dared 
in  his  presence  to  look  at  the  Daily  Mail  (which  she 
only  did  to  annoy  him,  for  she  hated  it  as  much 
as  the  Gazette),  though  she  found  the  people  who 

198 


*$  SISTERS  AND  OTHERS  *8 

came  to  the  house  too  gawky  when  they  were  poor,, 
and  too  coarse  when  they  were  rich,  she  learned  to 
live  the  new  life.  And  the  eyebrows  which  she 
raised  in  protest  imparted  to  her  a  pleasant  flavor 
of  disdain. 

Besides,  Upper  Brook  Street  was  merely  Buhner's 
home,  merely  the  place  where  he  slept  and  enter- 
tained— he  lived  at  the  corner  of  Fleet  Street,  in  the 
Daily  Gazette  offices.  The  tenants  of  the  adjacent 
houses  were  being  persuaded  out,  or  driven  out  by 
noise,  and  the  building  was  slowly  extending  along 
the  frontage.  The  Daily  Gazette  still  enshrined  Bul- 
mer's  soul,  and  the  affairs  of  his  emotions  served 
him  as  a  relaxation,  much  as  golf  serves  other  men. 
He  had  been  faithful  to  Vi,  not  out  of  any  sense  of 
fine  discrimination,  but  because  he  was  too  busy  to 
entangle  himself  in  affairs  which  meant  time  wasted 
on  rides  in  cabs,  lengthy  lunches,  and  giving  women 
the  attention  the  unreasonable  creatures  demand  if 
they  are  to  be  kept  in  a  good  temper.  But  now  Vi 
was  gone.  She  had,  inefficiently  enough,  represented 
woman,  so  he  sought  the  sympathetic  contact  which 
he  needed,  mainly  in  arms  that  were  venal.  He 
was  not  satisfied,  but  he  was  not  quite  unhappy. 
Woman,  and  all  she  might  mean  to  him,  was  a  secret 
thing.  And  secret  things  were  not  dominant  in 
Buhner.  After  all,  if  a  thing  was  secret  it  was  anti- 
pathetic to  publicity. 

In  the  course  of  the  incredibly  wet  summer  of 
1903  he  began  and  ended  an  affair  with  a  woman  of 
title,  a  big,  handsome,  bony  woman,  whose  cheeks 
came  straight  down  from  her  head  and  formed  a  chin 
of  great  determination.  She  had  very  fine  eyes, 
14  199 


*$  CALIBAN  % 

that  seldom  blinked;  beautiful  lips,  the  smile  of 
which  seldom  varied;  ropes  of  hair  excellently 
waved.  She  was  molded  into  her  clothes,  and 
whether  she  wore  an  evening  frock  or  a  riding-habit 
everything  fitted  her.  One  could  guess  by  looking 
at  her  that  under  her  clothes  every  hook,  eye,  and 
button  was  not  only  present,  but  done  up ;  her  stay- 
laces  were  so  arranged  that  when  she  undid  them  the 
two  ends  proved  exactly  equal  in  length. 

She  made  him  happy  in  a  way.  Her  intimacy 
flattered  him,  and  she  was  intelligent  enough  to 
understand  him,  but  she  was  not  soft  enough  to 
sympathize  with  him.  She  gave  him  a  relation  duly 
dosed  with  passion,  devoid  of  longing,  of  uncer- 
tainty, in  which  lay  no  search  for  the  union  that  is 
impossible  and  that  all  desire.  His  passage  in  her 
life  was  like  a  promenade  through  the  formal  beauty 
of  the  garden  of  Versailles. 

It  did  not  last  long.  It  was  not  exactly  that  she 
did  not  care  for  him  nor  he  for  her,  but  she  had 
given  him  only  what  he  knew,  and  what  he  wanted 
was  the  unknown.  When  he  talked  to  her  of  his 
plans  and  ambitions  he  was  crying  out  to  her,  beg- 
ging her  to  lift  him  out  of  the  successful  life,  begging 
her  to  make  him  forget  his  own  desires  in  the  misty 
fulfilment  that  a  woman  can  afford  when  upon  a 
man  she  sheds  the  incredible  gift  of  making  him 
ready  for  fraud,  cruelty,  and  treachery.  Instead, 
she  asked  him  to  take  her  brother  into  the  Daily 
Gazette.  Bulmer  saw  him,  thought  him  alfool,  and 
refused.  Then  he  grew  clumsy,  talked  of  starting 
the  young  man  on  some  job;  if  she  wanted  any 
money  he'd  manage  it  for  her.    She  hardly  said 

200 


][> SISTERS  AND  OTHERS  *g 

anything,  and  to  the  end  of  his  life  he  never  under- 
stood how  much  he  had  outraged  her,  for  she  was  a 
member  of  the  English  aristocracy,  so  she  had  the 
mind  of  a  tout;  she  could  accept  patronage,  but 
must  refuse  gold.  He  did  not  understand  that  she 
had  a  pride  of  class  which  made  it  impossible  for  her 
to  take  money,  but  made  it  natural  for  her  to  de- 
mand an  advancement  which  she  thought  due  to 
her  class. 

So  Bulmer  was  thrown  back  into  the  casual  life. 
The  woman  did  not  matter  so  much  after  all.     He 
had  not  hesitated  to  sacrifice  her  dignified  amorous- 
ness to  the  Daily  Gazette.     Half  unconsciously  he 
told  himself  that  he  might  have  wholly  loved  her,  if 
he  could  have  loved  her  enough  to  sacrifice  some- 
thing of  the  paper  to  her  whim.    Instead,  the  Daily 
Gazette  captured  him  more  completely.    He  played 
with  it  as  a  toy,  and  sometimes,  for  fun,  he  made  it 
carry  a  new  man  or  a  new  picture  into  fame.     It 
really  was  fun  .  .  .  like  making  confetti  with  a  filing 
punch.     He  happened  to  see  a  play  at  that  time 
called  "The  Meadow ";   all  three  acts  happened  in 
the  open  air.    This  struck  him  as  a  new  thing.    So 
he  printed  an  enthusiastic  notice  of  "The  Meadow," 
and  though  the  play  was  doing  so  badly  that  it  was 
near  being  taken  off,  it  immediately  boomed.     By 
next  day  it  was  booked  ahead  for  three  weeks.     Bul- 
mer grew  intoxicated  with  "The  Meadow,"  and  fol- 
lowed it  up  by  articles  on  open-air  life  by  well-known 
actors,  fashionable  doctors,   and  nut-eaters.     The 
boom  was  so  big  that,  within  three  months,  five 
theaters  were  staging  open-air  plays.     And  the  boom 
rolled  on,  diminishing,  but  still  sturdy,  into  the  next 

201 


*g  CALIBAN  *  c% 

year,  until  open-air  plays  were  replaced  by  a  new- 
craze — plays  in  which  everybody  wore  pajamas. 

Buhner  was  very  busy.  He  went  not  only  to  first 
nights,  but  was  advised  in  advance  of  the  latest 
thing.  Thus  he  was  present  when  the  first  eight 
miles  of  electric  tramways  were  opened  by  the 
London  County  Council  between  Westminster, 
Waterloo,  and  Blackfriars.  Buhner  was  interested 
because  this  was  the  first  electric  tramway  in  Lon- 
don. xAlso,  the  ceremony  restored  his  friendship  with 
Tarland,  now  an  electrical  engineer.  He  was  glad 
to  recover  Tarland,  and  also  he  respected  him,  for 
Tarland  said  that  he  was  no  writer  and  refused  to 
compose  an  article  for  the  Daily  Gazette.  He  was 
the  first  and  only  man  Bulmer  ever  met  who  could 
do  such  a  thing. 

He  was  very  busy.  He  was  not  happy.  He  was 
not  unhappy.    He  was  very  busy — mainly  that. 


Chapter  V 
Full  Swing 

IT  followed,  naturally,  on  his  normal  state  of  over- 
work, that  Bulmer  should  easily  respond  to  irri- 
tation. In  one  of  those  fits  of  unreasonable  reaction, 
he  created  the  Evening  Gazette,  just  because  he  had 
read  in  an  obscure  American  publication  that  the 
public  had  to  be  battered  twice  a  day  if  it  was  to 
think  once.  It  also  said  that  the  secret  of  Sir  Alfred 
Harmsworth's  power  had  as  much  to  do  with  the  Eve- 
ning News  as  with  the  Daily  Mail.  Bulmer  brought 
his  fist  down  on  the  table,  and  said  to  Swinbrook: 

"We  got  to  have  an  evening  paper,  and  pretty 
damn  quick." 

Bulmer  took  no  notice  of  his  editor's  apparently 
sound  advice  when  Swinbrook  pointed  out  that  the 
Daily  Gazette  was  three  years  old  and  wanted  all  the 
money  and  energy  Bulmer  could  afford  if  it  was  to 
become  an  established  habit  in  six  hundred  thousand 
readers  ...  to  say  nothing  of  the  million-odd  at 
which  they  were  aiming.  But  Bulmer  was  never 
afraid  of  lacking  money.  "Good  men,"  he  said, 
"find  backers."  In  this  case  his  contract  to  control 
for  five  years  yielded  him  a  30  per  cent,  capital 
share,  which  he  later  increased  to  57  per  cent, 
when  new  shares  were  issued,  and  ultimately 
to  78  when  Uncle  Bradley's  executors  sold  out. 

203 


•8?  CALIBAN  *8? 

On  this  day  of  inspiration  he  saw,  as  usual,  many 
people,  the  typical  clients  of  a  Liberal  paper, 
earnest  men,  anxious  to  spiritualize  England;  capi- 
talists, insinuating  that  free  trade  was  excellent  for 
all  except  their  own  industry,  wronged  Hindus, 
young  men  with  complete  plans  for  the  organization 
of  the  future,  and  old  men  with  pitiful  anecdotes  of 
the  past.  Bulmer  saw  them,  bled  them  of  informa- 
tion, gave  one  on  order,  the  other  a  brief  negative, 
picked  up  the  telephone  whenever  it  rang,  and  read 
most  of  the  next  issue  in  proof.  But  all  through 
floated  the  new  idea.  And  it  floated  for  twenty-five 
days,  to  which  was  added  a  week's  running  in  blank. 
Within  those  thirty-two  days  the  premises  were  ex- 
tended; second-hand  plant  was  mixed  with  new. 
And  the  Evening  Gazette  started,  or  rather  exploded; 
for  Bulmer  realized  that  the  first  duty  of  a  new-comer 
is  to  be  noticed.  So,  at  great  cost,  he  induced  three 
popular  favorites,  the  sporting  prophet  of  one 
publication,  the  city  editor  of  another,  and  the 
cartoonist  of  a  third,  to  hand  in  their  notice  and  pay 
forfeits  on  their  contracts.  Their  employers  let  them 
go,  realizing  that  if  they  held  them  they  would  serve 
them  ill.  It  was  expensive,  but  Bulmer  felt  that  it 
was  worth  while  when,  on  the  day  of  publication, 
he  saw  on  every  hoarding  his  new  poster: 

IF  YOU  WANT  TO  READ  "DEAD  SNIP" 
YOU  MUST  READ  THE  EVENING  GAZETTE 

IF  YOU  WANT  TO   READ  "MONEY  BAGS" 
YOU  MUST  READ  THE  EVENING  GAZETTE 

IF  YOU  WANT  A  CARTOON  BY  "TIP" 
YOU  MUST  READ  THE  EVENING  GAZETTE 

204 


*g  FULL  SWING  1? 

It  was  a  thundering,  dominating  poster,  for  the 
retired  colonels  and  the  clergymen  with  a  taste  for 
speculation  adored  "Money  Bags,"  while  "Tip" 
clipped  his  pencil  in  vitriol  and  every  day  earned  a 
million  laughs.  As  for  "Dead  Snip,"  he  was  worth 
the  two  of  them  combined,  for,  at  the  time,  one 
racing  man  out  of  every  two,  whether  of  the  Cocoa 
Tree  or  White's,  or  whether  he  laid  his  shilling  at 
the  barber's,  put  his  money  on  any  horse  that 
"Dead  Snip"  believed  in. 

In  the  face  of  his  immediate  success  Bulmer  broke 
up  that  poster  into  three,  and  soon,  round  the  prin- 
cipal towns,  stuck  in  the  meadows  between  Singer 
Cycles  and  Heinz's  Baked  Beans,  appeared  boards 
adjuring  literate  England,  in  the  name  either  of 
"Money  Bags,"  "Tip,"  or  "Dead  Snip,"  to  buy 
the  Evening  Gazette.  Bulmer  invented  nearly  all 
his  posters.  A  few  failed,  but  most  of  them  were 
very  successful.  Notably,  there  was  a  picture  of 
Father  Time  clinging  to  the  back  of  the  Evening 
Gazette  car.  The  old  fellow  had  just  lost  his  hour- 
glass, and  in  his  hopeless  effort  to  keep  up  with  the 
Evening  Gazette  was  throwing  away  his  scythe.  That 
poster  was  helped  by  the  sudden  attack  of  the  op- 
position papers,  who  recalled  the  famous  case  of  the 
peace  announcement,  when  Bulmer  had  spoken  a 
day  too  soon.     Bulmer  was  very  pleased. 

"Good  business,  Swinbrook,  good  business,"  he 
chuckled,  walking  up  and  down  the  office.  "They're 
laying  into  us  like  billy-oh!  Talk  of  a  free  adver- 
tisement! Oh,  if  only  I  had  a  hundred  thousand 
talkative  enemies!  Swinbrook,  do  you  think  you 
could  find  me  a  hundred  men,  say  for  five  shillings 

205 


*»  CALIBAN  °% 

a  day,  to  stand  in  Piccadilly  Circus  and  other  places 
where  there's  a  crowd  and  shout:  'Down  with  the 
Evening  Gazette!  Down  with  Buhner!'  Or  a  dem- 
onstration. Let's  have  a  meeting  in  Trafalgar 
Square,  and  let  'em  bring  along  a  crowd  to  wreck 
the  office." 

Swinbrook  laughed,  and  these  extremities  were 
not  resorted  to.  But  Buhner  did  better  than  answer 
his  critics;  he  plastered  every  space  be  could  find 
with  a  scarlet  and  yellow  poster,  reading: 

DO  YOU  WANT  TO-MORROW'S  NEWS? 
IT'S  IN  THE  EVENING  GAZETTE 

And  the  Daily  Gazette  was  brought  in  to  conduct 
ferocious  controversies  with  its  sister  evening  paper, 
so  that  a  double  advertisement  was  gained,  because 
the  public  grew  anxious  to  see,  morning  and  even- 
ing, what  new  nasty  remarks  they  would  make  about 
each  other.  The  only  thing  that  Buhner  did  not  do 
was  to  attack  his  critics. 

" Catch  me  advertising  them!"  he  remarked. 

For  Bulmer  was  most  capable  of  cynical  detach- 
ment. He  showed  it,  notably,  in  the  affair  of  the 
Daily  Gazette  tea,  which  that  year  he  floated.  A 
wild  person  called  Tresillian,  half  planter,  half  chem- 
ist, had  wandered  into  the  office  one  afternoon  and 
explained  that  in  Ceylon  shoots  were  cut  too  early; 
if  one  let  the  shoots  grow  one  would  get  three  pounds 
of  tea  for  every  one  now  got  off  the  plant.  Of 
course,  it  would  be  coarser,  and  weaker,  but — 
and  the  man's  yellow  face  showed  a  grin — one  could, 
with  a  touch  of  tannic  acid,  bring  it  up  not  only  to 

206 


*%  FULL  SWING  *g 

standard,  but  up  to  the  taste  of  the  English  masses. 
His  tea  would  be  darker  than  walnut  stain,  and 
strong  as  ink.  As  for  the  price,  say  eightpence  a 
pound,  including  tax.  Buhner  flung  himself  on  this 
proposal  with  intense  enthusiasm.  He  had  the  tea 
analyzed  and  reported  on  by  fashionable  members 
of  the  Royal  Society.  He  converted  the  product 
into  what  became  the  famous  D.  G.  T.,  and  invented 
a  number  of  prominent  posters,  showing  the  weary 
miner  as  he  refreshed  himself  with  D.  G.  T.  There 
was  even  a  St.  Bernard  dog  rescuing  a  snowbound 
traveler,  and  carrying  a  thermos  flask  labeled 
D.  G.  T. 

This  was,  of  course,  a  great  success.  Bulmer 
never  failed,  because  his  taste  was  the  average  taste. 
He  liked  what  the  masses  liked;  the  only  difference 
was  that  he  had  the  will  to  impose  and  they  only  the 
weakness  to  accept.  He  was  entirely  honest.  In 
this  case,  having  had  it  demonstrated  that  D.  G.  T. 
was  chemically  a  good  tea,  he  believed  in  it;  when 
an  opposition  paper  began  to  publish  horrible 
stories  of  tea  poisoning,  he  refused  to  take  up 
the  challenge. 

"No,  Swinbrook,"  he  said,  "let  'em  alone.  There 
isn't  any  tea  poisoning,  and  if  I  start  talking  about 
it  I'll  create  an  atmosphere,  and  people  will  get  tea 
poisoning.  If  I  say  nothing  about  it  they  won't. 
Don't  discuss  a  thing,  and  then  it  doesn't  happen." 

"Well,  I  had  an  aunt,"  said  Swinbrook,  "who 
drank  a  couple  of  quarts  a  day.  I  think  she  died 
of  it." 

"I  never  met  anybody  who  died  of  tea  poisoning," 
said  Bulmer. 

207 


*g  CALIBAN  *3? 

That  settled  it.  If  Buhner  had  not  seen  a  thing 
it  was  not,  though  he  would  have  been  quite  ready 
to  ignore  poisoning  if  he  could  have  conceived  it. 
But  to  ignore  was  his  one  method  of  ending  a  diffi- 
culty; he  suspended  his  enemy  in  an  airless  void. 
And,  in  due  course,  the  enemy  died.  He  would  not 
deal  with  the  enemy,  and  so,  when  feelers  came  to 
D.  G.  T.  from  rival  tea  firms,  he  merely  remarked 
that  this  was  a  trap,  and  did  not  answer  their  letters. 
When  offers  came  for  amalgamation,  and  when  it 
was  suggested  that  some  firms  were  going  bank- 
rupt and  would  come  cheaply  into  a  combine,  he 
said: 

"  Trying  to  take  us  in  by  making  out  they're  on 
their  last  legs.     Another  trap." 

The  secret  of  his  strength  was  that  Bulmer  be- 
lieved in  D.  G.  T.  As  D.  G.  T.  was  praised  in  the 
Daily  Gazette  he  believed  in  it.  If  he  had  arranged 
for  a  faked  report  (which  he  did  not  do)  he  would 
have  believed  in  it  once  it  was  printed  in  his  paper. 
In  this  case  he  more  than  believed  in  D.  G.  T.;  he 
drank  it.  Eleanor  created  a  disturbance  when  she 
tasted  the  new  brew,  but  Hettie  was  very  kind,  and 
said  it  wasn't  bad  if  you  drowned  it  in  water.  He 
was  so  pleased  that  he  gave  her  half  a  ton  of  D.  G.  T. 
for  the  poor. 

Then,  one  day,  Bulmer  forgot  all  about  D.  G.  T., 
because  he  was  excited  by  the  discovery  of  radium. 
Also,  Tarland  was  inflaming  him  with  stories  of 
electrified  plant,  which  was  just  coming  in.  Those 
were  fecund  years,  and  in  the  thrill  of  riding  on  the 
first  double-decked  motor-bus  from  Oxford  Circus 
to  Peckham,  Bulmer  forgot  D.  G.  T.     Tresillian 

208 


%  FULL  SWING  "g 

called  in  vain;  the  boom  collapsed  in  twelve  hours. 
Still,  he  had  a  fifth  share  in  the  company,  worth  to 
him  ten  thousand  a  year.  Bulmer  had  not  made 
a  penny.  But  he  had  enjoyed  himself.  And  he 
went  on  enjoying  himself,  for,  fevered  by  the  exam- 
ple of  the  Daily  News,  in  four  months  he  established 
new  local  offices  with  private  wires  and  telephones; 
before  the  year  was  done,  the  Manchester  Daily 
Gazette,  the  Glasgow  Daily  Gazette,  and  the  Birming- 
ham Daily  Gazette  every  morning  shouted  the  Bulmer 
gospel  to  a  placid  England. 

In  those  days,  when  Bulmer  was  thirty-five,  his 
condition  of  mind  approximated  with  that  of  most 
men  who  want  to  be  rich.  It  is  a  complex  condi- 
tion; it  shows  sides  which  the  world  calls  vicious 
or  cruel,  and  sides  which  the  world  finds  magnificent. 
It  is  the  mind  of  Captain  Kidd  and  the  mind  of 
Samuel  Smiles;  the  one  swift,  the  other  slow;  the 
one  lawless,  the  other  crafty.  Bulmer  amalgamated 
the  mind  of  his  brothers;  he  had  Kidd's  audacity, 
occasionally  the  prudence  of  Smiles;  he  could,  like 
Pierpont  Morgan,  Senior,  conceive  broadly ;  he  had 
the  original  dash  of  Rothschild,  bringing  back  before 
the  government  the  news  of  Waterloo;  he  joined  the 
ruthlessness  of  Crcesus,  collecting  treasure  from  the 
vanquished;  with  the  cunning  of  Fouquet  and  Warren 
Hastings,  controlling  politics  for  power  and  profit. 
He  was  of  the  modern  breed,  with  a  touch  of  Cecil 
Rhodes,  for  he  wanted  money  mainly  for  the  sake 
of  power.  And  also  he  wanted  to  make  money 
because  it  was  sport;  he  collected  money  as  other 
men  collected  Rembrandt  etchings.  Nor  was  this 
quest  entirely  without  mobility.    He  had  some  sym- 

209 


*8  CALIBAN  *3? 

pathy  with  Sir  William  Lever,  and  often  printed  plans 
and  descriptions  of  Port  Sunlight,  which  were  useful 
to  the  social  movement  of  the  day.  He  had  no 
abstract  impulse  to  do  good,  but  he  honestly  desired 
good  houses,  good  wages,  security  for  the  worker, 
and  money  in  his  purse  to  spend  on  pleasure.  His 
ideal  was  the  comfortable  slave  state. 

He  liked  material  good  things.  He  attached  great 
value  to  the  things  money  buys;  to  food,  drink, 
tobacco,  houses,  pictures,  clothes,  motor-cars,  horses, 
grouse  moors,  boxes  at  the  theater,  charitable  bene- 
factions, platform  seats,  cards  for  the  inclosure  when 
royalty  was  present;  he  valued  seats,  seats  in  the 
House  of  Commons  and  in  the  House  of  Lords,  seats 
on  committees,  seats  on  Borough  Councils  and 
Boards  of  Guardians;  he  would  have  liked  a  seat 
on  the  right  hand  of  the  Almighty,  if  purchasable, 
and,  failing  that,  a  private  fauteuil  in  hell.  He  knew 
that  he  could  drive  only  one  motor-car  at  a  time 
and  eat  only  one  dinner,  but  he  was  human  enough 
to  enjoy  having  more  motor-cars  than  his  neighbor, 
and  giving  him  a  better  dinner  than  he  could  buy. 
For  there  was  in  him  none  of  the  good  taste  which 
gives  dignity  to  the  Jewish  millionaire;  he  could 
rejoice  in  the  possession  of  a  unique  Velasquez,  but 
he  stressed  the  unique  and  tended  to  overlook  the 
Velasquez.  He  liked  charity  because  he  liked  the 
sensation  of  power  that  lies  in  giving.  And  he  liked 
to  head  subscriptions  with  a  thousand  guineas  from 
the  Daily  Gazette,  for  he  could  enjoy  even  the  splen- 
dor of  a  moral  attitude;  he  had  splendid  simplicity. 
He  was  the  type  of  rich  man  doomed  to  grow  richer 

by  the  force  of  this  simplicity.    He  could  draw  his 

210 


rrj 


%  FULL  SWING  *$ 

wealth  only  from  the  enormous  development  of  a 
single  idea  and  from  the  atrophy  of  every  other  idea. 
Life  was  good;  life  was  real.  Sometimes  he  felt  an 
emptiness;  then  he  took  a  pencil  and  wondered 
whether  he  could  not  create  another  paper. 


Chapter  VI 
Affairs 

BULMER  was  usually  unaware  of  events  in  his 
house.  So  many  people  came  there  at  so  many 
times  that  he  failed  to  observe  them.  He  was  like 
an  actor-manager  who  ends  by  growing  familiar  with 
the  people  in  the  stalls  on  first  nights,  yet  knows 
few  of  them.  And  so  it  did  not  surprise  him  that 
an  entirely  inept,  youngish  man,  called  Herbert  Pad- 
bury,  should  fill  rather  often  at  lunch  a  space  that 
might  have  been  given  to  some  one  more  eminent 
or  more  amusing.  Padbury  was  either  a  dissipated 
thirty-three  or  a  well-preserved  forty-eight.  Very 
tall,  very  thin,  vaguely  knock-kneed  in  excellent 
striped  trousers,  burned  brown  by  the  open  air; 
pocketed  under  the  eyes  by  drink  and  late  nights, 
he  suggested  greed  and  degradation.  When  the  men 
were  left  together  his  conversation  was  vile  and  his 
voice  delightful.  He  was  insolent  and  servile.  He 
was  the  sort  of  person  that  any  decent  policeman 
would  kick  out  of  his  front  garden  if  he  had  any 
daughters  in  the  house,  but  whom  the  same  police- 
man would  call  "sir"  when  he  found  him  drunk  and 
clinging  to  a  lamp-post.  Padbury  was  the  son  of  a 
rather  impoverished  Irish  peer;  he  had  been  with- 
drawn from  Eton  and  had  taken  a  pass  at  Oxford 

212 


AFFAIRS  *$ 


just  in  time — another  three  months  would  have  got 
him  sent  down.  After  hanging  about  the  clubs  and 
losing  a  breach-of-promise  case  against  a  chorus-girl, 
he  had  somehow  disgraced  himself  in  a  sinecure  at 
Dublin  Castle.  He  had  gambled  a  bit  at  the  clubs 
that  liked  his  kind  of  play,  touted  for  a  motor-car 
firm,  and  then  been  sent  in  turn  by  an  anxious 
family  to  Australia,  Canada,  and  South  Africa.  He 
married  in  Canada,  spending  his  wife's  money,  which 
was  abundant,  after  which  death  released  her  from 
his  company. 

In  his  later  years  Padbury  became  less  irrespon- 
sible, but  more  dangerous.  He  came  back  to  London, 
and  extorted  a  small  income  from  his  brother  when 
he  succeeded  to  the  title,  and  for  a  long  time  he  had 
been  outwardly  respectable.  He  acquired  Bulmer 
as  he  acquired  people  who  might  be  useful,  and  Bul- 
mer rather  liked  him;  he  enjoyed  Padbury 's  un- 
pleasant references  to  people  who  were  photographed 
on  the  back  page  of  the  Daily  Gazette,  but  had  not 
yet  dined  at  Upper  Brook  Street.  Bulmer  did  not 
notice  anything  until  one  Saturday  afternoon,  his 
holiday,  he  found  him  alone  with  Hettie,  drinking 
tea.  Then  he  forgot  the  incident.  Then  Hettie 
learned  to  ride,  and  rode  so  badly  that  she  was 
noticed  with  Padbury  in  the  Row.  This  was  brought 
to  Buhner's  notice  through  snapshots  of  "  People 
Seen  in  the  Park."  His  attention  having  been 
drawn  to  the  subject  several  times  he  at  last  began 
to  realize  what  it  might  mean.  He  had  heard  of 
Padbury.     He  thought : 

"Oh,  well,  even  if  he  didn't  settle  down.  Course 
he  wouldn't.     Wonder  whether  I  want  a  scandal 

213 


*»  CALIBAN  ]B 

in  my  family?  Might  damage  me.  Might  advertise 
me.    One  never  knows  with  scandals." 

So  he  did  nothing.  Padbury  once  made  vague 
references  to  the  cost  of  living  in  town,  and  said  in 
general  that  he'd  knocked  about  enough,  and  that 
if  he  could  find  a  nice  girl  with,  say,  fifty  thousand, 
he'd  pull  along  with  her.  " Ain't  enough  really,"  he 
said.  " Respectability's  a  luxury,  eh  what!  Feller 
long  ago  said  anybody  could  be  virtuous  on  ten 
thousand  a  year.  I  dunno.  May  be  easy  to  be 
virtuous  on  ten  thousand  a  year,  but  it  ain't  neces- 
sary. If  one's  only  got  a  thousand  a  year  one's  got 
to  be  respectable  as  a  churchwarden.  Other  thing's 
too  expensive." 

But  nothing  happened.  One  night,  as  he  went  to 
bed,  Bulmer  heard  sobs,  and  went  into  Hettie's 
bedroom.  She  would  say  nothing,  but  a  week  later, 
in  his  society  notes,  Bulmer  noticed  the  engagement 
of  Padbury  with  Miss  Daisy  Hogstein,  of  Chicago. 
It  was  this  no  doubt  increased  the  discomfort  in  the 
house.  Hettie,  whose  affair  was  well  known — thanks 
to  Padbury 's  conversation  in  the  clubs  and  his  refer- 
ences to  the  old  goose  with  the  golden  eggs — acted 
at  dinner-parties  (with  great  enjoyment)  the  part 
of  the  bereaved  widow  who  is  trying  to  make  the 
best  of  a  blatant  world.  Eleanor,  who  was  now 
forty-five,  and  better  looking  than  ever,  because  she 
was  still  thinner  and  happened  to  have  good  bones, 
made  Bulmer  feel  the  angles  of  these  bones.  He 
found  her  very  difficult.  There  had  been  trouble 
already  about  bridge  on  Sunday  afternoons;  bridge 
was  just  then  becoming  very  popular,  and  bridge 
parties  were  being  given  with  a  hint  that  whist  had 

214 


"8  AFFAIRS 


CQ3 


gone  to  Tooting.  Bulmer  had  boomed  bridge  in  the 
Gazette,  and  was  not  going  to  be  without  his  bridge 
parties. 

"I'm  not  a  prude,"  said  Eleanor,  "but  I  don't 
think  cards  ought  to  be  played  on  Sundays.  It 
doesn't  look  well." 

"Look  well  to  who?"  asked  Bulmer.  "In  this 
part  of  the  world  one's  neighbors  don't  care." 

"I'm  not  talking  about  the  neighbors.  Of  course 
the  neighbors  wouldn't  know.    It  isn't  like  tennis." 

"But,  good  Heavens!"  said  Bulmer,  "supposing 
there  was  a  tennis-lawn  here,  would  you  make  a 
fuss?  Does  it  hurt  your  feelings  to  have  games  on 
Sundays?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Eleanor,  calmly,  "but  it  hurts 
other  people's  feelings.  It  shocks  them.  In  the  case 
of  tennis,  people  who  pass  by  don't  like  it.  And  if 
we  play  cards  here  on  Sunday  it  wouldn't  be  good 
for  the  servants." 

Bulmer  swore,  and  bridge  parties  were  given  on 
Sundays,  for  in  the  end  he  always  broke  Eleanor. 
But  she  annoyed  him  by  appearing  at  one  of  the 
parties  and  loudly  informing  his  guests  at  half  past 
six  that  she  was  going  to  evening  service.  Also, 
there  was  trouble  when  he  caught  cold;  Eleanor 
insisted  on  nursing  him,  and  then  refused  him  hot 
milk  and  brandy  because  all  alcohol  was  bad.  She 
knew  that  he  was  an  average  drinker  at  meals,  but 
now  that  he  was  in  bed  and  could  not  get  out  she 
found  an  opportunity  for  propaganda.  So  Bulmer 
rang  the  bell  violently,  and  told  his  valet  to  bring 
him  a  bottle  of  whisky;  he  drank  so  much  of  it  that 
he  was  sick.     It  was  all  this,  no  doubt,  that  pre- 

15  215 


*8  CALIBAN  *8 

cipitated  him  into  affairs  with  women.  He  was  not 
beset  by  passionate  preoccupations,  and  indeed  had 
all  his  life  felt  very  little  the  precise  need  of  women. 
Apart  from  a  few  venal  adventures  and  a  romantic, 
but  entirely  platonic  passion  for  a  young  woman 
who  walked  on  in  a  musical  comedy,  he  had  known 
little  of  women  before  his  marriage.  He  was  entirely 
faithful  to  Vi.  After  she  left  him  the  emptiness  of 
his  emotional  life,  rather  than  desire,  drove  him  to 
adventures  which  always  he  strove  to  make  pro- 
found. In  this  he  was  not  fortunate;  he  was  too 
successful,  too  rich,  to  be  entirely  loved.  He  was 
thirty-five;  so  active,  so  intelligent,  so  domineering, 
that  women  were  attracted  to  him,  and  that  his 
difficulty  was  to  choose  rather  than  to  discover. 
But  the  attraction  was  always  a  little  unclean,  for 
it  was  not  Richard  Bulmer  they  loved,  but  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  Daily  Gazette,  the  coming  rival  of  Lord 
Northcliffe;  or,  worse,  they  wanted  to  be  adver- 
tised, or  to  write  in  his  papers,  or  to  be  seen  in  his 
company  and  that  of  the  powerful.  Now,  Bulmer 
was  not  a  man  of  fine  perceptions,  but  he  was  not  a 
fool,  and  so  he  was  often  unhappy  when  he  discov- 
ered always  behind  the  melting  sweetness,  the  ardor, 
the  ready  wit,  or  even  the  slow  grace  that  is  all  aloof- 
ness and  innocence  this  aspiration  to  personal  profit. 
His  vague  idealism  disarmed  him;  whenever  a  re- 
lationship with  a  woman  developed,  he  secretly  told 
himself:  "At  last!  She  loves  me.  Really  she  loves 
me."  He  retained  a  vague  vision  of  the  woman  who 
would  really  love  him.  He  did  not  quite  know  what 
it  would  be  like,  but  it  would  be  wonderful,  repose- 
ful, and  stimulating.    He  would  not  want  anything 

216 


"g  AFFAIRS  "g 

more  than  she  gave  him.     He  could  trust  her;   she 
would  be  real. 

But  women  did  not  give  him  that.  He  fascinated 
them;  his  personality  crushed  them,  and  in  the  very 
fact  of  conquest  they  escaped  him  because  they 
admired  him  too  much  to  love  him.  They  took  him 
intellectually  rather  than  emotionally.  In  the  end 
they  nearly  always  made  him  talk  about  himself  or 
about  his  plans :  they  did  not  allow  him,  who  so  vio- 
lently wanted  to,  to  love  them.  They  wanted  him  to 
perform,  to  be  a  great  man,  strutting  up  and  down 
in  a  closed  room  for  their  entertainment,  and  to  tell 
themselves  that  vanquished  Hercules  span  at  their 
feet.  And  the  temptation  was  too  great  for  his 
vanity.  He  responded,  did  talk  of  himself  and  his 
plans.  His  ambitions,  by  expressing  themselves  in 
words,  excluded  the  emotion  he  desired.  Once  even, 
at  an  assignation,  he  talked  about  his  intentions  for 
an  hour,  put  on  his  hat,  and  went  away,  having  for- 
gotten the  rest  of  his  errand. 

For  a  moment  he  thought  he  had  found  Her  in 
Joan  Belmont;  only,  he  half  cynically  told  himself, 
that  he  had  thought  the  same  thing  in  the  case  of 
Miss  Kingsley  and  Lady  Barford.  Indeed,  Miss 
Kingsley  had  been  a  fine  adventure.  She  was  a 
rather  short,  square  girl,  with  too  much  red  hair, 
with  eyes  too  large  and  too  green,  a  skin  too  white. 
She  was  a  fairly  successful  actress,  and  she  attracted 
Bulmer  probably  because  she  was  sufficiently  self- 
satisfied  to  think  of  herself  rather  more  than  of  him. 
But  Miss  Kingsley  was  excessive.  She  had  a  mind 
to  fit  her  impressive  features.  She  was  a  burlesque 
of  beauty,  and  their  affair  did  not  last  very  long.    It 

217 


«  CALIBAN  H 

was  always  vaguely  ridiculous;  they  speechified  in 
turns,  they  caressed  each  other  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  stage  whispers,  while  eyes  drowned  in  stage 
tears  were  directed  to  an  absent  gallery.  Bulmer 
soon  grew  tired  of  this  private  Drury  Lane  .  .  .  but 
the  scene  of  their  parting  was  magnificent. 

Lady  Barf  or  d  was  quite  different.  She  was  a 
very  tall  woman,  whose  husband  took  little  notice 
of  her  because  she  bored  him.  As  Barford  sardoni- 
cally put  it,  "Polrv's  a  dear,  but  the  trouble  is  she 
was  twins;  and  her  brother's  got  brains  enough  for 
two."  It  took  Bulmer  a  long  time  to  realize  this, 
for  Polly  Barford  was  tall,  had  splendid  dark  eyes,  a 
tragic  mouth,  and  banded  black  hair.  She  looked 
like  Medea,  but  the  splendor  of  her  features  hid  an 
entire  absence  of  thought.  Polly  Barford  observed 
nothing,  understood  nothing,  remembered  nothing. 
If  she  had  been  born  poor  the  London  County  Coun- 
cil would  have  sent  her  to  a  school  for  defectives. 
She  did  not  resist  Buhner's  advances;  she  had  not 
even  ideas  about  morals,  and  her  reputation  was 
excellent  only  because  the  average  London  rake  was 
frightened  off  by  her  cool  splendor.  Still,  she  got 
on  very  well  with  Bulmer  for  several  months.  She 
listened  to  him,  her  great  eyes  wide  open,  and,  when- 
ever he  paused,  said  in  a  deep  voice,  "  You're  won- 
derful!"   Then  after  a  pause,  " Wonderful!" 

Bulmer  subsisted  happily  on  this  fare  until  he 
came  to  demand  of  Lady  Barford  something  more 
than  to  be  told  he  was  wonderful.  He  wanted  her 
to  make  him  feel  wonderful,  but  he  could  feel  won- 
derful only  if  he  felt  sure  that  she  loved  him.  Her 
admiration  cloyed,  and  as  he  was  not  a  man  in  whom 

218 


%  AFFAIRS  *g 

physical  emotion  blotted  out  every  other  demand,  he 
found  his  interviews  with  Polly  grow  less  frequent. 
He  grew  bored,  and  the  interviews  spaced  out;  she 
proved  too  lazy  to  make  scenes  about  it.  Once, 
when  he  had  not  seen  her  for  three  weeks,  she  gave 
him  a  beautiful  smile,  asked  him  whether  he  thought 
Russia  would  beat  Japan,  listened  to  the  end  with- 
out a  sign  of  understanding  him,  and  remarked  that 
he  was  wonderful ! 

It  was  Joan  Belmont  broke  off  the  relationship  by 
interposing  herself  as  a  new  interest.  Joan  Belmont 
was  very  small,  very  fair,  and  infinitely  intelligent. 
She  was  perhaps  too  vivacious  and  too  intellectual 
to  give  him  the  restfulness  which  he  wanted  after 
his  hard  labors,  but,  coming  immediately  after  the 
immeasurable  dullness  of  Lady  Barford,  she  con- 
vinced Buhner  that  he  was  in  love  with  her,  that  he 
would  ruin  himself  for  her,  be  divorced  for  her. 
For  the  first  time  he  thought  of  getting  rid  of  Vi, 
whom  he  had  not  seen  for  two  years,  and  of  whom 
he  heard  only  now  and  then,  when  she  wanted  more 
money  (for  Vi,  who  had  a  large  house  at  Finchley, 
had  developed  a  taste  for  motoring,  and  was  rather 
expensive).  Joan  was  a  painter,  living  in  an  upper 
flat  in  a  decrepit  house  in  Lawrence  Street,  where 
she  practised  exquisite  Bohemianism  with  the  as- 
sistance of  Chelsea.  She  came  to  know  Buhner 
through  an  interview  in  Ainsworth's  room.  Ains- 
worth  had  taken  the  place  of  Linton  as  periodicals 
manager,  Linton's  contract  having  been  canceled  in 
a  fit  of  ill  temper.  (Incidentally,  Buhner  gave  Lin- 
ton eighteen  months'  salary  to  cancel  thirty  months 
of  contract,  adding  that  he'd  give  him  ten  years' 

219 


f<g  CALIBAN  *$ 

salary  rather  than  have  him  manage  his  papers 
another  day.) 

Joan,  who  sold  few  pictures,  partly  because  they 
were  very  bad,  partly  because  they  were  rather 
modern,  supplemented  a  small  private  income  by 
black-and-white.  When  Buhner  came  in  she  had 
just  sold  Ainsworth  a  series  of  sketches  touching  on 
domestic  life  in  the  Black  Country.  Bulmer  thought 
her  charming,  with  her  frizzy  hair,  her  sparkling 
blue  eyes,  and  the  laughing  dimples  on  each  side 
of  her  ugly,  intelligent  mouth.  He  said,  "I  suppose 
you  know  the  Black  Country  very  well,  Miss 
Belmont?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  the  girl,  laughing,  "I've  never 
been  farther  north  than  Hendon.  But  of  course  I 
told  Mr.  Ainsworth  I  was  born  in  Wolverhampton. 
Now  he's  bought  my  sketches  he  can't  very  well 
back  out." 

Both  men  laughed  at  this  audacity,  and  hearing 

that  Miss  Belmont  painted  in  oils,  Bulmer  appointed 

to  go  and  see  her  work  at  her  studio.     He  found  her 

very  easy,  very  light.     Joan  Belmont  looked  upon 

love  as  a  rag.     All  through  their  relation  she  felt  it 

was  a  terrific  rag  that  she,  a  little  girl  from  the 

studios,  who  had  run  away  from  her  family  with 

forty  pounds  a  year,  and  often  lunched  on  bananas, 

should  have  captured  this  terrific  person  who  could 

make  a  reputation  and  unmake  it  in  a  week.     It  was 

incongruous,   and  so  it  delighted  her.     Also,  Bul- 

mer's  quick  intelligence  leaped  up  to  hers,  and  so, 

for  a  while,  they  burned  in  a  common  intellectual 

flame,  sometimes  so  bright  that  they  mistook  it  for 

love.    Joan  Belmont  did  Bulmer  a  great  deal  of 

220 


°$  AFFAIRS 


good,  for  she  dragged  him  down  from  the  pedestal 
upon  which  other  women  had  placed  him.  She  had 
no  reverence,  and  once,  when  the  car  took  them  to 
Hertfordshire  fields,  she  teased  him  all  the  after- 
noon, buried  him  in  the  hay,  and  filled  his  hair  with 
burs.  And  she  familiarized  him  with  people  from 
the  studios,  people  he  had  never  met  before,  and  the 
like  of  which  he  had  not  suspected.  But  Joan  irri- 
tated him  while  she  pleased  him,  because  she  did 
not  respect  enough  the  influence  of  which  he  was 
proud. 

More  than  anything,  in  those  days,  Bulmer  en- 
joyed his  influence.  It  radiated  in  his  office.  He 
liked  the  feeling  of  stir  that  invaded  the  corner  of 
Fleet  Street  when  he  went  up-stairs.  People  flut- 
tered papers  when  he  came  in.  As  if  fluid  energy  dis- 
turbed them.  A  certain  air  of  "damn  the  conse- 
quences" hung  about  the  sub-editors'  room.  He 
liked  to  be  consulted,  to  have  people  come  in  with 
facts  about  Balfour,  and  neat  paragraphs  demon- 
strating in  a  hundred  words  that  Protection  was 
dead  and  damned.  Whenever  the  telephone  bell 
rang  its  voice  was  that  of  adventure.  He  liked  to 
take  slips  from  the  commissionnaire  when  people 
wanted  to  see  him,  especially  strangers;  there  might 
be  something  exciting  in  their  unknown  business. 
He  took  childish  pleasure  in  ringing  numerous  bells 
and  calling  up  the  staff,  to  be  lectured  or  encouraged; 
and  he  adored  conferences  with  his  editors;  he  en- 
joyed hearing  their  views,  and  crushing  them  under 
the  impact  of  his  own.  He  liked  to  throw  out  on 
this  obedient  assembly  those  Napoleonic  phrases  in 

221 


*g  CALIBAN  *g 

which  he  was  specializing.  He  liked  to  think  that 
they  might  be  immortal.  One,  which  combined 
Radicalism  and  the  new  idea  of  Woman  Suffrage, 
was  immortal  ...  for  a  few  days.  "Down  with  the 
lords  and  up  with  the  ladies/'  said  the  placard  that 
united  Campbell-Bannerman  and  Mrs.  Fawcett. 
Another,  a  delicious  one  dealing  with  Chinese  labor, 
represented  twin  comedians — Mr.  Sam  Mayo,  sing- 
ing "  Ching-chang,  wing-wang,"  and  Mr.  Alfred 
Lyttelton,  also  in  a  dressing-gown,  singing,  "There 
is  a  golden  Rand,  far,  far  away."  He  was  very 
happy,  for  he  was  still  sure  of  himself.  Joan  Bel- 
mont and  her  Chelsea  attitude  of  "art  for  art's 
sake"  had  not  yet  disturbed  his  serenity. 

He  found  her  friends  intolerable,  their  conversa- 
tion incomprehensible;  the  wilful  exhorting  of  their 
principles,  the  symbolism  of  the  poets,  which  sym- 
bolized nothing,  irritated  him.  Their  logomachies, 
their  hatred  of  success,  their  worship  of  gods  that 
they  pulled  down  when  these  gods  gathered  too 
many  worshipers,  sickened  him.  And  he  was  of- 
fended by  their  open  contempt  for  Covent  Garden 
opera,  for  the  Academy,  Hall  Caine,  for  all  things 
he  respected  because  they  were  respectable.  He  felt 
hostile  and  detached,  and  Joan  annoyed  him.  She 
had  imported  from  Paris  what  she  called  the  New 
Vision:  this  New  Vision  struck  Bulmer  as  a  new 
form  of  delirium  tremens.  For  a  time  they  main- 
tained their  relation,  though  Bulmer  suspected  that 
she  half  joined  the  plot  to  make  fun  of  his  crudity, 
and  yet  to  flatter  him,  to  insult  and  to  use  him. 
There  were  moments  of  recovery,  as  when  he  fired 
the  young  Nietzscheans  by  saying  that  he'd  rather 

222 


j£ AFFAIRS Jl 

be  publicly  hanged  than  privately  canonized,  but 
by  degrees  suspicion  killed  Joan's  attraction;  they 
guarded  and  sparred  as  they  embraced.  After  a 
sharp  quarrel  they  parted.  He  was  not  unhappy, 
but  he  was  sore,  his  pride  was  touched;  he  had  been 
laughed  at;  he  had  felt  small  among  these  small 
people.  Though  he  despised  them  he  could  not  help 
feeling  that  they  thought  him  gross  and  obtuse. 
He  was  so  angry  that  his  daily  criticism  of  the  Daily 
Gazette  cost  him  several  members  of  his  staff.  His 
criticism  was  always  sharp,  and  circulated  on  a  slip 
bearing  remarks  such  as,  "Why  were  the  Bishop  of 
London's  remarks  on  the  rise  of  immorality  dropped 
out  of  the  second  edition?  The  make-up  is  bad.  It 
is  no  use  advertising  ladies'  underclothes  on  the 
financial  page.  I  can't  make  out  what  the  picture 
of  Dollie  Johnson  on  the  back  page  is.  It  looks  like 
a  gasometer;  or  Westminster  Abbey  by  moonlight. 
Mem.    Keep  up  the  agitation  against  wood-pigeons." 

But  that  day  he  was  very  angry.  One  of  the 
things  that  hurt  him  most  was  that  Joan  had 
sneered  at  Zip. 

"I  don't  see  what  you've  got  against  Zip,"  he 
grumbled.    "It  brings  in  over  ten  thousand  a  year." 

She  only  laughed  in  an  insolent  way,  and  he 
was  angry  because  he  held  as  a  superstition  that  Zip 
was  his  Napoleonic  star.  He  relieved  himself  by 
discovering  extreme  feebleness  in  the  campaign 
against  the  National  Telephone  Company;  being  a 
Liberal  organ,  the  Daily  Gazette  was  supporting  the 
purchase  of  the  company  by  the  government,  and  so 
was  vilifying  it  to  persuade  the  public  that  the 
government  should  take  it  over. 

223 


H  CALIBAN  H 

"  Disgraceful!"  he  shouted,  as  he  ran  into  Swin- 
brook's  room.  "  Who  wrote  this  leader?  Who  shngs 
this  pap  at  the  pubhc?  Pap!  Catlap!  The  man 
who  wrote  this  wouldn't  lift  the  roof  off  a  Baptist 
chapel.     There's  no  guts  in  this,  man." 

"I  wrote  it,"  said  Swinbrook. 

"Then  what  the  devil  .  .  ." 

"That's  enough,"  said  the  Scotchman,  getting  up, 
"you  can  have  my  resignation." 

"Oh,"  said  Buhner,  and  paused,  a  little  shaken. 
"All  right.  We  need  a  change.  This  office  is  rotten, 
rotten  to  the  core." 

"Well,  sack  the  lot,"  said  Swinbrook. 

Buhner  did  not  quite  do  this,  but  he  dismissed 
Ash,  and  in  his  stead  put  Benson,  while  Alford, 
formerly  assistant  editor,  took  the  place  of  Swin- 
brook. Also,  he  sacked  Ormesby  for  luck;  he  had 
always  hated  his  dramatic  chin.  He  felt  better  as 
he  sat  among  the  ruins,  though  still  he  thought 
revengefully  of  the  Chelsea  people,  and  of  the  little 
damage  he  could  do  them.  If  only  they  were  popu- 
lar he  could  hit  them.  But  what  could  he  do  to 
Chelsea  loafers  except  refrain  from  advertising  them? 
Fortunately  he  knew  how  to  forget. 


Chapter  VII 
Knight 

IT  was  about  then  that  a  maniacal  strain  began  to 
develop  in  Buhner.  Doubtless  because  he  was 
emotionally  empty,  and  because,  as  a  drunkard,  he 
discovered  that  the  thing  which  depressed  him  could 
stimulate  him,  he  formed  a  new  paper  when  he 
could  think  of  nothing  else  to  do.  Thus,  within  a 
single  year,  he  added  to  his  provincial  list  the 
Leeds  Daily  Gazette,  the  Norwich  Daily  Gazette,  and 
the  Nottingham  Daily  Gazette.  He  no  longer  asked 
himself  whether  papers  paid:  his  morning  paper 
was  but  a  little  over  four  years  old,  and  not  one  of 
his  publications  was  ten,  but  success  had  come  so 
quickly,  so  unaccountably,  that  he  thought  in  terms 
of  power,  and  money  followed.  The  narrow  radius 
of  his  paper  outraged  him;  in  spite  of  special  trains 
he  could  not  get  the  Daily  Gazette  into  Scotland  until 
midday.  And  even  when  he  printed  it  at  Man- 
chester, as  he  soon  did  after  laying  down  his  private 
wires,  even  so  the  Daily  Gazette  was  late  for  the 
Scottish  breakfast.  It  was  shameful  to  be  late  for 
breakfast!  So,  by  degrees,  his  vision  grew  of  a 
United  Kingdom  scarred  in  every  town  by  a  Daily 
Gazette  office;  he  dreamed  of  Daily  Gazettes  in 
America,  in  the  Argentine,  in  the  British  groups  in 

225 


Tg  CALIBAN  Tg 

Europe,  everywhere  where  English  was  spoken  and 
where  English  ears  might  open  to  his  words.  He  had 
no  precise  message,  but  he  wanted  to  deliver  himself. 
Once  he  said  to  Alford: 

"To  think  that  there's  an  Englishman  in  Shanghai 
who  doesn't  say,  'I  saw  it  in  the  Daily  Gazette  .  .  .,' 
it  makes  me  ill." 

Alford  smiled.  He  was  a  short  man,  with  a  square, 
bald  head.  He  sometimes  clashed  with  his  chief 
because  of  his  caution.  Alford  never  hurried,  was 
never  surprised.  Once,  when  a  big  fire,  where  many 
girls  were  burned  alive,  horrified  London,  Alford 
calmly  telephoned  Benson,  the  news  editor,  and  told 
him  to  ascertain  whether  it  was  seventy-three  or 
seventy-four  girls. 

"The  agencies'  wires  don't  tally,"  he  told  Bulmer, 
who  was  smiling  at  his  accuracy.  "You  may  laugh, 
Boss,"  he  added,  "but  there's  only  one  rule  in  jour- 
nalism: check  your  facts;  then  check  them  again; 
then  get  somebody  else  to  check  them  for  you,  for 
you  may  be  wrong  twice." 

Alford  conducted  the  Daily  Gazette  on  the  best 
lines  of  the  Civil  Service,  with  this  difference:  he 
caused  himself  as  well  as  his  subordinates  to  be 
supervised.  He  proved  incredibly  valuable  to  Bul- 
mer in  the  days  prior  to  the  general  election  of  1906, 
because  he  was  almost  impossible  to  prove  wrong. 
It  was  not  that  he  had  any  scruples  in  lying,  but  he 
always  saw  to  it  that  his  facts  were  right  and  his 
conclusions  wrong.  The  opposition  newspapers 
could  therefore  only  attack  his  reasoning,  and  as 
the  public  was  entirely  unable  to  understand  either 
Alford's  or  the  opposition's  reasoning,  the  public, 

226 


*$  KNIGHT  « 

who  knew  that  a  fact  was  a  fact,  invariably  sided 
with  him.  It  never  occurred  to  them  that  a  fact 
might  convey  an  idea. 

Buhner's  only  difficulty  with  Alford  was  this 
solidity,  and  there  was  a  long  conference  before  the 
election,  during  which  Alford  blocked  every  catchy 
idea.  It  was  just  like  first-class  cricket.  Alford's 
difficulty  was  his  honest  belief  in  Liberalism  and  its 
party.  Buhner  grew  so  angry  at  Alford's  persis- 
tence in  pushing  forward  the  land  question,  the 
housing  question,  education,  and  temperance  that 
at  last  he  banged  the  table  and  roared: 

"I'll  have  no  more  of  this.  You've  no  gumption, 
any  of  you.  Another  word  and  I'll  sack  the  lot  of 
you  and  buy  up  the  Morning  Post  staff.  It's  hope- 
less having  men  defending  ideas  they  believe  in. 
You  all  get  carried  away  by  your  feelings  about 
what's  right  and  what's  wrong.  Right!  I  say  rot! 
We've  got  to  make  a  case  that'll  appeal  to  the  man 
in  the  street,  in  the  third-class  railway  carriage,  who 
has  his  lunch  at  Lyons',  or  carries  it  about  tied  up 
in  a  red  handkerchief.  He  doesn't  want  any  of  your 
damned  housing  or  your  damned  education  .  .  .  and 
he'd  rather  go  to  hell  than  go  back  to  the  land.  He 
doesn't  want  anything  except  to  go  on  getting  his 
wages,  his  beer,  his  girl,  and  eightpence  to  take  her 
to  the  gallery  at  the  local  ' Empire'  on  a  Saturday 
night." 

"But,  Boss,"  said  Benson,  "we  can't  exactly 
boom  those  things,  can  we?" 

Buhner  looked  at  him  for  a  moment.  He  liked 
his  news  editor  very  much.  Benson  was  a  wiry 
little  Scotchman.    He  had  begun  as  an  office-boy 

227 


*8?  CALIBAN  *» 

at  fifteen  in  a  weekly  newspaper  in  Forfarshire.  For 
the  next  twenty  years  he  had  lived  about  seventeen 
hours  a  day  in  newspaper  offices.  He  had  occupied 
every  position,  could  write  leaders  on  modern  music 
or  causeries  on  birds. 

"No,"  said  Bulmer,  "I  know  we  can't,  but  .  .  .," 
he  exploded,  "what  the  hell  do  you  want  to  boom 
anything  for?  Smash,  that's  the  game.  Don't  you 
know  your  trade,  any  of  you?  Don't  you  know  that 
what  a  man  wants  is  to  do  another  man  down?  Do 
him  out  of  his  rank,  do  him  out  of  his  language,  do 
him  out  of  his  religion.  Liberals?  They're  just 
anti-Tories.  Conservatives?  They're  just  anti- 
Rads.  Men  don't  want  things  made.  They  want 
things  smashed.  Get  it  clear  in  your  head :  no  man 
wants  anything  but  another  man's  misfortune." 

Bulmer  prevailed,  not  so  much  because  he  was  the 
boss  as  because  he  converted  his  subordinates.  His 
gospel  inflamed  them  because  he  spoke  it.  He 
thought  nothing  that  the  most  vulgar  could  not 
think,  but  he  thought  it  with  an  intensity  and 
brought  it  about  with  a  will  that  gave  it  splendor. 
A  tiger,  perhaps,  but  one  cannot  laugh  at  a  tiger. 
So  he  enjoyed  enormously  the  campaign  against  the 
Conservatives,  which  traveled  exclusively  on  two 
lines:  down  with  tariffs!  and  down  with  Chinese 
labor!  Chinese  labor  pleased  him  most  because  the 
compulsory  celibacy  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
coolies  lent  itself  to  suggestion.     As  Bulmer  put  it: 

"Show  the  public  something  that's  immoral. 
They'll  do  it  if  it  isn't  found  out,  and  vote  against 
it  if  it  is." 

So,  day  after  day  he  printed  half -columns  of  police- 

228 


*g  KNIGHT  ^ 

court  reports  from  South  Africa.  It  did  not  matter 
whether  the  case  was  white,  black,  or  yellow,  or 
whether  it  happened  in  Cape  Town  or  on  the  Zambezi ; 
it  always  worked  back  to  Chinese  labor,  and  to  a  plea 
to  vote  against  Lyttelton  and  his  Tory  associates. 
He  followed  this  up  by  a  series  on  slavery  during  the 
ages,  above  each  of  which  he  placed  a  cartoon  of  a 
Minister.  He  had  one  of  Mr.  Balfour,  carelessly 
flogging  a  Chinaman  with  one  hand,  in  the  other 
holding  a  book  on  which  was  printed:  "An  open 
mind  is  an  empty  mind."  There  was  also  the  Duke 
of  Devonshire,  snoring  hard  in  a  bed,  the  posts  of 
which  were  spitted  through  the  bodies  of  four  writh- 
ing coolies.  Buhner  also  captured  Tom  Groby,  the 
Labor  M.P.,  and  gave  him  wide  opportunities  to 
terrify  the  voters  with  suggestions  of  coolies  imported 
into  England  to  lower  wages. 

He  would  have  been  less  happy  with  free  trade, 
because  here  he  must  defend  instead  of  attacking, 
if  Joseph  Chamberlain  had  not  vaunted  the  happy 
industrial  state  of  Germany.  Buhner  broadly  ad- 
vertised the  debatable  news  that  Germans  ate  dogs. 
He  thereupon  printed  a  serious  leaderette  headed: 

THE  DOG  AS  A  FOOD 

(Recommended  by  Mr.  Chamberlain) 

He  caused  leading  doctors  to  be  interviewed  on 
this,  and  printed  their  horrified  replies,  pointing  out 
that  if  the  Unionist  Government  was  put  in  again 
dog-steak  would  obviously  fill  the  bill  of  fare.  This 
even  got  into  Jackie's  Own  Journal,  and  Mollie's 
Own  Journal,  and  into  Wee  Winnie's  Weekly,  which 

229 


■g  CALIBAN  °£ 

had  just  been  started  by  Miss  Acton.  Miss  Acton 
bad  much  talent  in  this,  and  every  week  composed 
heartrending  little  stories  about  the  wicked  Unionist 
Government  that  would  starve  England  into  eating 
Fido  if  father  didn't  vote  for  the  Liberals.  Then 
Buhner,  by  duplicating  his  blocks,  spread  the  attack 
to  the  provinces,  and  gave  the  public  broadsides  of 
fourteen  cartoons,  showing  John  Bull's  bad  dream 
after  eating  the  Tariff  Reform  dinner,  and  such  like. 
But  his  real  triumph  was  the  Joseph  Chamberlain 
sausage,  a  horrible,  gnarled,  grayish  object,  of  which 
millions  were  printed  on  cardboard  and  slipped  into 
the  issues  of  the  Buhner  publications.  Buhner  ex- 
hibited the  sausage  in  his  corner  window,  and  soon 
there  was  a  permanent  little  crowd  staring  at  the 
ghastly  thing,  by  the  side  of  which  lay,  on  black 
velvet,  an  exquisite,  succulent,  pink,  varnished  Libe- 
ral sausage. 

Still  he  extended  his  program:  "Rob"  and  "Tip" 
produced  with  endless  fertility  cartoons  showing 
peers  scraping  working-men  off  the  earth  with  a 
muck  rake,  or  working-men  hatching  eggs  while  the 
crafty  landlord  crept  in  and  stole  the  chickens. 

"That's  about  it,"  said  Buhner  to  Alford.  "No 
damn  building.  Just  go  hitting  'em  on  those  three 
places:  landlords,  tariffs,  and  Chinamen.  And  if  it 
bleeds,  hit  again." 

Now,  his  staff  troubled  him  little,  for  everybody 
believed  in  him.  Some  grew  stale;  thus  the  adver- 
tising manager  was  dismissed  and  replaced  by  Peni- 
stone,  while  Gedling,  who  was  fainting  after  four 
years  of  foreign  scandals,  was  replaced  by  Barby. 
The  time  had  come,  however,  when  Bulmer's  staff 

230 


ji? KNIGHT *g 

mattered  very  little.  He  was  indeed  editor  of  his 
papers;  his  editors  were  only  secretaries.  Besides, 
his  policy  lay  outside  rather  than  inside  Shoe  Lane. 
There  was,  for  instance,  the  case  of  the  three-year- 
old  that  won  the  historic  race.  Buhner  had  bought 
him  without  disclosing  his  plans.  His  name  was 
then  Boscobel.  Bulmer  paid  a  heavy  price  for  Bos- 
cobel,  who  during  the  spring  won  anything  he  liked 
on  the  flat.  Some  arrangements,  the  history  of 
which  is  unknown,  were  made  with  the  Jockey  Club, 
and  suddenly  Boscobel  began  to  run  under  the  name 
of  Free  Trade.  Nobody  grasped  the  meaning  of  this, 
though  the  odds  on  Free  Trade  grew  more  and 
more  favorable  to  the  horse.  It  was  only  when  in 
October  Free  Trade  won  the  historic  race  that  Alford 
understood.  But  he  did  not  expect  what  happened 
at  the  end  of  December,  just  before  the  election, 
when  Bulmer  inserted  in  the  Daily  Gazette  a  picture 
of  the  horse,  a  list  of  its  victories,  and  underneath: 

VOTE  FOR  FREE  TRADE! 
HE'S  SAFE  FOR  THE  DERBY 

He  was  very  happy  because  he  was  busy.  He 
had  less  of  a  man's  love  of  power  than  a  boy's  love 
of  mischief.  He  did  not  want  to  remold  the  world, 
but  he  did  want  to  make  the  government  sit  up. 

The  election  came  and  was  won.  A  week  after 
birthday  honors  he  fingered  new  visiting-cards:  Sir 
Richard  Bulmer.  He  did  not  care  much  whether 
the  servants  now  called  him  Sir  Richard;  he  knew 
that  the  party  which  honored  him  hated  him,  and 
he  delighted   in   this   combination   of  hatred   and 

16  231 


'S  CALIBAN  « 

honor;  it  was  so  much  more  flattering  than  honor 
and  love.  Besides,  he  had  no  time  for  his  enemies.  He 
was  too  uncomfortable  in  his  new  position  as  a  sup- 
porter of  the  government;  he  had  to  defend  the 
Education  bill.  As  his  ideas  of  defense  were  offense, 
his  papers  lost  some  of  their  virility.  In  his  anger 
he  dwelt  too  much  on  non-political  topics.  This 
meant  that  he  developed  unduly  home  interests  and 
scandals.  The  opposition  found  it  easy  to  charge 
him  with  vulgarity.  Besides,  his  new  social  position 
puzzled  him;  he  realized  that  he  owed  it  dignity, 
and  he  could  not  pay  his  bill.  He  tried  very  hard, 
as,  for  instance,  when  he  bought  Bargo  Court  in 
Hertfordshire.  A  man  of  his  position  had  to  have  a 
country  seat,  painful  as  it  might  be  to  move  out  of 
the  two-mile  radius  from  Charing  Cross.  Still,  it 
had  to  be  done,  and  Eleanor  and  Henrietta  learned 
to  wear  tweeds,  to  talk  horse,  golf,  and  dog. 

Then  Bulmer  found  that  he  must  give  week-end 
parties,  which  interfered  with  his  desire  to  do  his 
own  reporting.  He  still  did  it,  in  a  way.  To  one 
of  these  parties  came  Mr.  Felton,  a  steady  Liberal 
member,  rewarded  for  his  faithfulness  by  a  private 
secretaryship  to  a  Minister.  He  liked  Felton  because 
his  worn  spirit  approached  cynicism.  Also,  Bulmer 
had  not  yet  exhausted  the  delight  of  showing  off  his 
possessions,  and  so  he  took  Felton  round,  painstak- 
ingly exhibiting  his  house,  his  Gainsborough,  his 
accumulation  of  Hertfordshire  histories  in  costly 
bindings.  He  made  Felton  admire  one  of  the  thou- 
sands of  cocked  hats  attributed  to  Napoleon.  Bul- 
mer was  unwearied  in  his  pleasure,  and  he  compelled 
the  unfortunate  man  to   examine  nearly  all   the 

232 


°£  KNIGHT  *g 

Chinese  ivories,  of  which  he  had  four  hundred  and 
eighty-two. 

But  quietist  pleasures  did  not  satisfy  him.  On 
the  Sunday  morning  he  said  to  Felton,  with  a  naive 
desire  to  impress  him : 

"Now,  Mr.  Felton,  I'm  going  to  show  you  a  bit  of 
special  reporting  for  the  Daily  Gazette.  You've  heard 
of  the  Hamilton  case,  haven't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  that  was  yesterday,  wasn't  it?  Wasn't 
Hamilton  found  in  compromising  circumstances  in 
his  own  office?  Awfully  hard  on  a  man  with  such  a 
good  reputation.  Of  course  the  girl's  a  rotter.  Still, 
wTe  don't  know  much  about  it.    There  are  no  details." 

"No.     That's  just  what  I'm  going  to  find  out." 

"Oh,  how?" 
I'm  going  to  ring  up  Hamilton  and  ask  him." 
But,  good  Heavens!"  cried  Felton,  "you  surely 
don't  think  he'll  talk?" 

Bulmer  did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  but  his  blue 
eyes  twinkled  as  they  did  always  when  he  was  about 
to  say  something  Napoleonic.  Then,  slowly,  he  re- 
plied: "Oh,  won't  he?  You  have  no  idea,  Mr.  Felton, 
what  unwise  things  a  man  will  say  when  he  is  labor- 
ing under  acute  distress." 

Felton  looked  at  him,  horrified,  and  seeing  his 
expression,  Bulmer  added:  "Yes,  I  know.  You 
think  it  a  bit  thick.  But  that's  not  our  business, 
we  newspaper  men,  whether  it's  a  bit  thick  or  not. 
News  is  news  and  the  public  must  have  it.  It's  the 
public's  right,  it's  our  duty.  If  I  can  get  news  I 
must  get  news.  If  there  was  something  about  me 
that  might  interest  the  public,  I'd  offer  it  to  the 
public,  even  if  it  damaged  me." 

233 


tc 

a 


«  CALIBAN  IS 

Felton  stared  at  him,  for  Sir  Richard  Buhner 
stood  with  large,  rapt  eyes,  as  if  exalted  in  some 
idolatry,  as  if  he  saw  himself,  a  martyr  to  his  trade, 
lighting  with  his  own  body  a  candle  before  the 
sacred  shrine. 

"I  say,"  said  Felton  at  last,  "but  isn't  it  rather 
hitting  below  the  belt?" 

"Always  hit  below  the  belt,"  said  Buhner,  in  a 
low  voice;  "it's  softer.  Hit  a  man  in  the  face  if 
you  can;  hit  him  in  the  back  if  you  must.  There's 
nothing  else  to  do.  I  am  the  public's  master.  I  am 
the  public's  slave.  I  can  only  be  its  master  by  being 
its  slave.  Otherwise  it  won't  let  me  live,  and  I  say: 
Hail,  Public!  Those  who  are  about  to  live  salute 
thee!" 


Chapter  VIII 
Baronet 

VI  did  not  often  disturb  Buhner  during  the  years 
of  their  separation.  At  first  they  corresponded 
a  little — that  is,  Vi  sent  him  long  and  rather  ill- 
spelled  letters,  in  which  she  vaguely  complained  of 
her  health,  of  being  dull,  of  the  scarcity  of  servants; 
at  the  same  time  she  equally  vaguely  conveyed  that 
she  was  jolly  glad  to  have  got  rid  of  him.  And  she 
always  asked  for  money,  not  because  she  was  ex- 
travagant, but  because  she  was  entirely  incompe- 
tent when  it  came  to  spending  more  than  five  shill- 
ings. Vi  had  been  poor  too  long,  and  knew  exactly 
where  to  get  handkerchiefs  at  three-three  when  most 
shops  charged  sixpence  halfpenny.  On  the  other 
hand,  she  could  buy  a  bronze,  decide  to  have  it 
picked  out  in  colors,  and  then,  in  a  fit  of  temper, 
call  in  a  dealer  and  sell  it  to  him  for  two  pounds  ten. 
Her  position  in  her  big  house  at  Finchley  was  rather 
desolate.  She  had  been  fool  enough  to  settle  in  a 
suburb,  not  understanding  that  suburbs  think  con- 
jugal separations  rather  vicious,  while  Central  Lon- 
don thinks  them  rather  spicy.  So  she  had  been 
lonely  for  a  time,  until  it  struck  her  to  contribute 
freely  to  the  church.  By  degrees  she  bought  herself 
into  local  committees  for  the  employment  of  the 

235 


°S  CALIBAN  *» 

unemployables,  and  the  rescue  of  women  who  had 
gone  to  the  devil  and  were  determined  to  stay  with 
him.  Also,  as  Buhner  went  up  in  the  world,  she 
relatively  did  so,  too,  and  another  kind  of  society 
formed  round  her;  she  was  asked  to  join  a  local 
dancing  club  and  given  a  seat  on  the  committee  of 
a  bridge  club.  The  resultant  acquaintances  were 
certainly  amusing,  and  not  very  desirable. 

In  five  years  she  visited  Upper  Brook  Street  only 
once,  and  Bulmer  twice  called  on  her  at  Finchley. 
These  were  not  emotional  meetings.  Indeed,  their 
relation  was  puzzling;  it  did  not  amount  to  actual 
dislike  of  each  other;  they  were  to  each  other  merely 
facts.  Bulmer  sometimes  felt  a  little  remorseful,  but, 
after  seeing  her  house,  which  was  cerise  pink  except 
where  it  was  pale  blue,  where  everything  was  tied 
up  with  bows,  where  the  drawing-room  mantel- 
piece was  covered  with  china  dogs,  Goss  china,  and 
photographs  in  silver  frames,  he  concluded  she 
was  happy  enough.  He  knew  that  she  wanted  more 
money,  and,  after  refusing  her  an  interview  and 
receiving  a  curiously  clear  letter,  in  which  she  pointed 
out  that  if  she  liked  to  go  to  law  she  could  get  a  third 
of  his  income  out  of  him,  he  decided  to  call. 

He  found  Vi  more  truculent  than  usual,  and  quite 
unjustly  decided  she  had  grown  ugly.  She  was 
that  day  wearing  an  afternoon  dress  of  green  silk, 
which  did  not  set  off  her  swarthiness.  Also,  she  was 
in  a  bad  temper,  and  her  underlip  hung  heavy.  Vi 
at  thirty -nine  was  still  a  handsome  woman,  though 
rather  heavy  in  the  figure,  for  she  still  had  fine  eyes 
and  a  passionate,  petulant  mouth.  It  was  not  a 
very  long  interview.    She  began  by  abusing  him  and 

236 


<g  BARONET  °S 


asking  whether  he  thought  she  liked  being  deserted 
by  her  husband,  and  the  neighbors  talking  about  her. 
And  didn't  he  see  what  a  position  he'd  placed  her  in? 
When  Bulmer  replied  that  she  had  left  him  of  her 
own  free  will,  she  shed  a  few  tears.  These  tears  were 
so  diplomatic  that  Bulmer  grew  suspicious,  and  said: 

"Well,  you  look  all  right  on  it.  You've  got 
plenty  of  friends,  I  suppose?" 

"What's  the  good  of  that?"  asked  Vi.  "A 
woman  in  my  position  can't  have  friends.  People 
talk  if  men  come  to  the  house." 

"Well,  I  suppose  men  do  come  to  the  house,"  said 
Bulmer. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Vi,  looking 

away. 

For  a  moment  Bulmer  wondered  whether  he  had 
fluked  on  some  secret,  but  he  was  not  interested 
enough  to  pursue  the  idea. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "how  much  do  you  want? 
I  give  you  two  thousand  a  year  as  it  is,  and  you're 
always  asking  for  more.  Let's  make  an  end  of 
this  and  have  a  proper  deed  of  separation  and  a 
settlement." 

"You  do  put  things  coarsely,  Dick,"  replied  Vi. 
"Of  course  it  costs  money  to  entertain." 

"How  much  do  you  want?" 

"I  could  have  a  third  of  your  income,"  said  Vi, 
sullenly. 

"How  much  do  you  want?"  asked  Bulmer,  loudly. 
"If  it's  reasonable  you  shall  have  it.  If  it  isn't  .  .  . 
well,  you  sha'n't.  You  won't  answer?  Look  here, 
I'll  settle  three  thousand  a  year  on  you  for  life,  and 
if  you  don't  like  it,  well,  you  can  go  to  law." 

237 


CALIBAN  « 


Vi  did  not  reply  for  some  time.  A  thousand  a 
year  rise  was  very  nice.  Only  her  new  friend,  the 
secretary  of  the  bridge  club,  ex-bookmaker,  still  very 
smart  in  a  dissipated  way,  had  told  her  to  stick  out 
for  four  thousand.  She  was  not  exactly  in  love  with 
him,  but  he  dominated  her,  though  she  suspected 
him.  She  did  not  know  him  enough;  in  the  last 
two  months  she  had  stayed  with  him  in  the  country 
three  times;  sometimes,  audaciously,  she  let  him 
into  the  house  when  the  servants  had  gone  to  bed. 
He  had  established  over  her  an  animal  influence; 
he  was  not  dear  to  her,  but  the  loss  of  him  would 
hurt  her.  What  she  really  wanted  was  capital. 
Then  perhaps  they  could  marry  if  .  .  . 

"Dick,"  she  said,  "have  you  ever  thought  of 
letting  me  divorce  you?" 

Buhner  laughed.  "Why  should  I  let  you  divorce 
me?  That's  pretty  cool.  You  want  to  drag  me 
through  the  divorce  court  and  make  yourself  out  an 
injured  innocent." 

"Well,  you  could  get  rid  of  me  like  that,"  said  Vi. 
"Surely  you  don't  expect  me  to  be  divorced  after  the 
way  you've  treated  me?  " 

"Look  here,"  said  Bulmer.     "I'm  not  going  to 

talk  of  divorce.    I  can't  afford  a  scandal.    I've  only 

just  been  knighted,  and  I  may  ..."     He  stopped 

suddenly,  as  a  man  about  to  say  something  unwise. 

Vi  reflected  that  it  wasn't  much  use  having  capital 

if  she  couldn't  get  a  divorce.     Of  course,  she  might 

have  him  watched.    But  it  would  be  very  difficult 

to  catch  a  busy  man.    Also,  her  lover  told  her  that 

the  courts  were  very  chancy.     She  might  not  get 

more  than  fifteen  hundred  pounds  alimony.     And 

238 


]B BARONET *g 

her  lover  had  not  asked  her  to  get  a  divorce.  Hurt 
and  desirous,  she  wondered  whether  he  wanted  her 
to  get  a  divorce.  Anyhow,  he  aimed  at  four  thou- 
sand a  year,  so,  obediently,  she  said: 

"I  don't  want  to  quarrel,  Dick.  Make  it  four 
thousand  a  year.  After  all,  you're  making  a  lot  of 
money." 

They  argued  for  a  little  time.     Then  Buhner  said : 

"Oh,  damn  it  all,  I'm  wasting  time  with  you. 
This  interview's  costing  me  hundreds.  I'll  give  you 
three  thousand  five  hundred  a  year.  I  don't  grudge 
you  four  thousand  a  year,  but  I'm  not  going  to  be 
bullied  and  badgered  like  this.  Three  thousand  five 
hundred  a  year,  that's  my  last  word." 

Vi  accepted.  She  was  a  little  afraid  of  him.  And, 
after  all,  she  daren't  press  much.  Supposing  it  came 
out  about  her?  So  she  said,  "All  right,"  and  as  she 
saw  him  out  of  the  drawing-room,  held  up  her  face 
to  be  kissed.  She  did  not  hate  him,  and  she  thought 
this  politic.  He  put  a  hand  on  her  shoulder  and 
kissed  her  indifferently  on  the  cheek.  He  had  noth- 
ing against  her.  Ten  minutes  later,  as  the  car 
petarded  down  Haverstock  Hill,  he  was  thinking  of 
more  public  affairs.  And  yet  the  idea  of  divorce 
hung  in  his  mind.  He  even  spoke  to  Eleanor  in 
general.  She  objected  very  violently.  "Divorce," 
she  said,  "lowered  the  morality  of  women."  But 
she  said  nothing  about  the  morality  of  men,  presum- 
ably expecting  nothing  of  them.  Then  the  subject 
left  his  mind.  He  was  very  busy  just  then,  booming 
the  South  African  cricket  team  which,  for  the  first 
time,  was  visiting  England;  and  he  had  other  cares, 
for  now  the  whole  of  the  Unionist  press  and,  in  a 

239 


**?  CALIBAN  *g 

sub-acid  manner,  the  Liberal  press,  was  attacking, 
sometimes  his  papers,  sometimes  his  own  personality. 
He  rather  liked  that,  and  sent  frequent  letters  to  his 
provincial  Gazettes,  instructing  them  to  avoid  direct 
replies  and  to  double  the  intensity  of  their  particular 
campaigns.  As  for  personal  attacks,  he  took  them 
half  as  insults,  half  as  tributes.  The  first  he  cut  out 
and  carried  for  many  days  in  his  pocketbook.  It 
seemed  an  unjustified  attack.  All  that  because  he 
had  declared  that  the  government  was  weak-kneed 
and  watery-eyed  in  its  land  policy,  and  that  England 
wanted  a  Man.  Then  he  found  a  Man  in  Mr.  Hugh 
Thornton,  a  young  and  abusive  Welsh  Liberal  mem- 
ber. For  three  weeks  he  ran  Thornton  in  the  most 
formidable  style.  Thornton's  biography.  Thorn- 
ton's South  African  medals.  The  attainments  of 
Thornton's  father,  scientist  and  inventor.  The  seven 
Daily  Gazettes  and  the  Evening  Gazette  yelled  to- 
gether, "We  want  Thornton."  Deputations  were 
organized  locally  and  sent  to  the  Prime  Minister  to 
demand  Thornton.  At  last  the  Prime  Minister  said : 
"Oh,  well,  let  them  have  Thornton.  He  won't  do 
any  harm,"  and  made  Thornton  under-secretary  of 
the  department. 

Then  something  dreadful  happened.  Thornton 
had  lunched  with  Bulmer  several  times  and  had 
been  lectured  for  the  major  part  of  a  week-end  at 
Bargo  Court.  He  seemed  mild,  and  took  down  in 
a  note-book  everything  that  Bulmer  said.  Bulmer 
saw  himself  remolding  the  English  land  system. 
Every  time  he  made  a  proposal  Thornton  said,  "I 
quite  agree."  But  the  day  after  the  young  member 
was  made  under-secretary,  and  Bulmer  asked  him 

240 


T8  BARONET  *g 

to  dinner,  Thornton  replied  that  he  was  too  busy. 
During  the  first  three  or  four  weeks  things  went 
pretty  well,  and  Buhner  had  much  to  do  with  the 
drafting  of  the  Land  bill.  But  he  realized  that 
Thornton  was  giving  way  only  on  details,  and  that 
the  principle  of  the  bill  was  all  Thornton  with  a 
touch  of  Prime  Minister  and  no  touch  of  Bulmer. 
There  was  a  violent  altercation,  during  which  Bul- 
mer discovered  that  Thornton  was  entirely  honest 
and  incredibly  obstinate.  He  retired  angrily,  and 
the  next  morning,  in  all  the  Daily  Gazettes,  appeared 
an  article  headed  T.  M.  G.  (Thornton  Must  Go). 
The  machine  was  reversed.  Thornton's  former 
speeches  were  unearthed;  portions  were  cut  out  so 
that  his  statements  seemed  inept.  Because  he  had 
resigned  from  a  mission  society  on  conscientious 
grounds  he  was  caricatured  as  the  bigot  of  Llanpwll- 
gybi.  The  private  life  of  his  regrettable  aunt  was 
exposed;  an  extract  from  Mark  Twain,  where  a 
man  is  made  to  shake  turnips  from  a  tree,  was  fas- 
tened to  him  as  evidence  of  his  fitness  to  control  the 
land. 

And,  because  of  this,  just  this,  thought  Bulmer, 
with  a  true  sense  of  injury,  a  rival  paper  was  calling 
him  a  vulgar  boomster,  saying  that  he  enshrined 
the  lowest  traits  of  the  stump  orator  and  the  cheap- 
jack.     It  actually  said: 

"  Sir  Richard  Buhner's  method  never  varies.  You 
get  hold  of  a  well-known  man.  You  boost  him;  you 
make  out  that  you  alone  know  his  worth;  you  cram 
his  worth  down  the  public's  throat;  3rou  terrorize 
the  Cabinet.  When  you've  got  him  in  you  try  to 
boss  him.    If,  by  misfortune,  your  creature  turns  out 

241 


°%  CALIBAN  * 

to  be  straight,  you  cynically  shout,  for  the  world  to 
hear,  his  incompetency,  his  nullity.  You  show  how 
often  he  escaped  jail.  You  search  out  his  relatives, 
attack  some  because  they  are  in  the  gutter,  others 
because  they  possess  presumably  ill-gotten  wealth. 
Chops  and  tomato  sauce  are  the  burden  of  Sir  Rich- 
ard Buhner's  pleas  for  the  government  of  this  coun- 
try. By  chops  and  tomato  sauce,  as  surely  as  Ser- 
geant Buzfuz,  does  he  defend  his  promotions  and 
unmake  the  mushroom  reputations  he  raises  in  the 
humid  cellars  of  Shoe  Lane." 

"Yes,"  thought  Bulmer,  "I  believe  that  paper 
doesn't  like  me."  He  was  proud,  but  he  was  hurt, 
and  so  he  was  glad  of  the  sycophants  that  surrounded 
him.  They  were  very  many,  his  flatterers.  So  many 
that  Moss  had  to  see  them  for  him  and  make  a  pre- 
liminary clearance  among  the  people  who  wanted  to 
start  Daily  Gazettes  in  villages  of  two  hundred  in- 
habitants, or  wished  him  to  take  up  compulsory  gas 
stoves,  or  had  original  methods  for  the  suppression 
of  sex.  Sometimes  the  arts  came  to  him,  and  here 
he  was  always  seducible,  for  the  old  insults  he  had 
suffered  in  Chelsea  in  the  days  of  Joan  Belmont  im- 
pelled him  to  show  the  arts  that  he  was  bigger  than 
they,  and  could  make  them  in  a  column.  So  now 
and  then  he  took  up  a  play,  a  picture,  or  a  book, 
generally  one  that  was  rather  poor  and  a  little  pre- 
tentious, above  the  heads  of  the  public,  yet  not 
among  the  stars.  Thus  he  made  a  success  of  "The 
Three  Brothers,"  a  somber  play  from  Sweden;  he 
made  the  public  like  Epstein  for  a  while,  and  under 
his  orders  Rustington  gave  favorable  reviews  to  books 
which  made  Rustington  sick.     But,  in  the  main, 

242 


%  BARONET  *g 

Bulmer  hated  the  Chelsea  arts.  They  were  so  supe- 
rior. They  never  thought  of  circulation  and  sales 
.  .  .  because  they  knew  they  couldn't  get  circulation 
or  sales.  So  they  pretended  to  be  above  it.  He 
managed  to  impress  this  on  a  man  who  came  to  him 
and  asked  him  to  buy  the  Mauve  Review. 

" What's  the  circulation?"  asked  Bulmer,  chew- 
ing his  cigar  with  a  sulky  air  that  he  affected. 

"Oh,  about  two  thousand.  But  of  course  you,  Sir 
Richard,  could  raise  it." 

"No  good.  To  begin  with,  I  never  buy  a  paper. 
If  it's  good  the  owners  don't  want  to  sell.  If  it's 
bad  I'd  rather  make  a  new  paper  and  kill  it." 

"But,"  said  the  envoy,  with  a  shocked  air,  "surely, 
Sir  Richard,  you  realize  this  isn't  commerce,  exactly. 
If  you  buy  the  Mauve  Review  you'll  be  in  touch  with 
all  that  is  best  in  literature,  in  art,  in  modern 
thought." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Bulmer,  "with  all  the  people  who 
don't  matter." 

"Don't  matter!" 

"No.  Nothing  matters  unless  there's  enough  of 
it.  Your  greenery-yallery  crowd,  your  art  for  life's 
sake,  or  your  art  for  art's  sake,  and  your  verses  that 
don't  rhyme,  and  your  pictures  of  impressions  while 
having  a  tooth  out,  what  do  you  think  you're  up  to? 
Blasted  lot  of  water  spiders  jiggling  about  while  the 
stream  flows  on." 

"We  do  not  always  fail,"  said  the  envoy,  as  if 
seizing  an  advantage.  "The  Yellow  Book  ran  for 
four  years." 

Bulmer  laughed.  "Give  me  the  yellow  press 
rather  than  the  yellow  book,"  he  said. 

243 


°g  CALIBAN  % 

He  was  really  too  busy  for  these  people.  He  was 
taking,  too,  a  strong  interest  in  the  developments  of 
the  day,  notably  in  wireless.  His  offer  of  a  five- 
thousand-pound  prize  to  the  first  man  who  sent  a 
wireless  message  to  America  and  got  it  recorded 
there  probably  hastened  developments,  for  now 
regular  marconigrams  were  passing  between  Conne- 
mara  and  Glace  Bay.  Everything  that  touched 
America  interested  him;  he  did  not  care  about  Mars 
nor  about  Richmond.  One  was  too  far  and  one 
couldn't  get  there;  the  other  was  too  near  and  one 
got  there  too  easily.  America  was  beautifully  diffi- 
cult enough.  It  was  this  liking  for  America  which 
led  him  to  agitate  for  the  Anglo-American  penny- 
post.  The  agitation  was  not  quite  sincere,  for  he 
discovered  that  the  government  had  practically  de- 
cided to  establish  it,  so  he  promptly  started  the 
campaign  in  favor  of  the  penny  post,  and  when  in 
due  course  the  government  executed  its  previous 
plan  he  was  able  to  announce  in  all  the  Gazettes: 

WE  GOT  THE  PENNY  POST  TO  AMERICA 

His  activities  touched  all  that  moves  and  nothing 
that  is.  He  gave  a  terrific  boom  to  Arnaud  Massey 
when  the  Frenchman  won  the  International  Golf 
Championship,  and,  as  if  predestined,  traveled  in 
the  first  car  when  the  subway  was  opened  between 
the  Embankment  and  the  Strand.  And  still  he  pro- 
liferated. Having  met  Ratcliffe,  a  society  man,  at 
lunch,  he  put  him  in  charge  of  a  smart  weekly  called 
Tittle  Tattle;  then,  wanting  to  spread  his  inter- 
ests, he  brought  down  from  Nottinghamshire  an  ex- 

244 


**?  BARONET  *$ 

international  footballer  called  Annesley,  to  whom 
he  added,  for  cricket,  his  old  school-fellow,  Selby. 
Selby,  having  married  successfully,  did  no  work, 
and  was  brought  to  Bulmer  by  Tarland,  who  still 
refused  to  write  nippy  notes  on  engineering.  These 
recruits  produced  sporting  weeklies  called  The  Wicket 
and  The  Goalpost,  and  soon  invaded  the  local  athletic 
clubs. 

Bulmer  was  sentenced  by  this  activity,  not  only 
because  life  rewarded  him,  but  because  it  was  the 
only  thing  to  do.  Like  Napoleon,  he  could  subsist 
only  by  victory.  And,  like  Napoleon,  he  had  to 
demand  its  fruits.  Thus  he  had  to  hint  to  the  gov- 
ernment that  knighthood  was  no  longer  a  dignified 
position,  and  that  if  dukes  were  three  a  penny 
knights  must  be  very  cheap.  So  he  was  made  a 
baronet,  and  the  addition  of  the  word  "Bart."  on 
his  morning  mail  gave  him  certain  satisfaction. 
But,  indeed,  private  life  hardly  existed  for  him; 
Hettie  was  becoming  more  lachrymose  as  the  dis- 
turbances of  spinsterhood  grew  more  desperate,  and 
she  quarreled  with  Eleanor,  who  grew  more  acid 
with  time.  There  was  a  big  quarrel,  lasting  several 
days,  because  Hettie  had  herself  photographed  and 
paid  eight  guineas  a  dozen.  Eleanor  called  this 
shocking  extravagance,  but  could  not  say  what  the 
money  ought  to  have  been  spent  on.  She  repeated 
with  maddening  monotony,  "You  ought  to  have 
bought  something  useful."  When,  in  defense,  Hen- 
rietta pointed  out  that  the  photographs  would  make 
Christmas  presents  at  fourteen  shillings  each,  Eleanor 
grew  confused,  for  she  could  not  pretend  that  Christ- 
mas presents  ought  to  cost  less.    But  she  remained 

245 


jg  CALIBAN  *K 

angry,  for  Eleanor  did  not  appreciate  the  thing  she 
liked;  she  appreciated  only  the  things  which  are 
publicly  recognized  as  likable  or  valuable.  There 
was  a  good  deal  of  Bulmer  in  her.  She  had  preju- 
dices, too,  like  him,  but  as  they  were  not  the  same 
they  irritated  him.  They  had  a  quarrel  because  all 
through  October  she  refused  to  wear  furs,  declaring 
this  to  be  weak-minded.  When  she  told  him,  on 
the  20th  of  October,  that  she  wished  it  were  No- 
vember 1st,  because  then  she  could  wear  furs,  he 
flung  himself  into  such  a  fury  that  for  two  even- 
ings Eleanor  dined  out. 

And  time  went  on.  Now  he  was  thirty-eight,  then 
thirty-nine.  He  was  like  a  man  in  a  motor-car  when 
the  brakes  go  wrong;  able  to  pull  up  only  if  he  meets 
a  hill.  In  this  new  hysteria  he  was  interesting  to 
the  people  he  met,  and  at  Shoe  Lane  he  was  discussed 
more  than  any  employer  by  his  staff.  Rustington, 
notably,  liked  to  talk  of  him  to  Alford.  Rustington 
was  a  Canadian,  had  been  a  schoolmaster.  Now  he 
was  literary  editor  of  the  Daily  Gazette,  and,  as  he 
had  some  money  of  his  own,  could  afford  to  indulge 
in  good  taste.  He  also  indulged  in  psychology,  and 
had  watched  and  analyzed  Bulmer  many  years  before 
he  joined  his  staff. 

"  You  know,  Alford,"  he  said  once,  "the  Boss  is  a 
marvelous  man.  He's  got  no  brain.  He's  not  clever. 
He's  got  no  common  sense.  He  never  thinks  .  .  . 
but  he  never  thinks  twice,  and  that's  the  making  of 
him.  He's  just  one  great  big  desire;  as  most  men 
can't  conceive  desire,  he  gets  his  way." 

"Oh,  that's  all  bunkum,"  said  Alford.  "Not 
clever!    Why,  there's  nobody  in  the  country  knows 

246  " 


*  BARONET  *g 


what  the  public  wants  like  him.  Northcliffe's  not 
in  it.  Hulton's  not  in  it.  As  for  Bottomley  and  his 
big  drum!  You  put  your  money  on  Buhner,  and  you 
won't  be  far  wrong.  He  knows  what  the  public 
wants. " 

"He  did  ten  years  ago,  when  he  made  Zip,  but  he 
doesn't  now.  His  mind  is  the  middle-class  maximum, 
and  it  never  evolves.  He  hasn't  even  the  sense  to  be 
consistent  in  his  policy.  Well,  of  course,  only  a 
damn  fool  is  consistent,  and  the  Boss  was  quite 
right  when  he  said  to  me  the  other  day,  'Times  change 
and  views  must  change  with  them/  but  what's  the 
good  of  that?  The  public  likes  a  man  to  be  con- 
sistent, gives  'em  something  to  hold  on  to." 

"But  I  thought  you  said  his  mind  never  evolved!" 
cried  Alford.  "Now  you  blame  him  for  being  con- 
sistent." 

"That's  just  it.  The  mind  behind  is  always  the 
same,  but  the  policy  of  to-day  clashes  with  that  of 
yesterday.  He  thinks  he  leads  because  he  follows. 
There  is  no  Buhner.  Do  you  know  his  favorite  book? 
It's  Under  Two  Flags.  His  favorite  picture?  It's 
'The  Doctor.'  Talk  of  the  middle-class  maximum! 
That's  the  secret  of  his  success.  Half  England  is 
middle  class;  the  Boss's  readers  are  all  alike  from 
Westbourne  Grove  to  Buckingham  Palace.  And  the 
rest  are  trying  to  be  like  'em." 

Alford  smiled.  "Well,  never  mind  how  he  does  it. 
He's  a  success." 

"Yes,  the  world's  given  him  wheels.     That's  the 
test,  Alford,  wheels.     When  a  man's  got  his  motor- 
car you  know  the  populace  has  granted  him  the 
garter." 
17  247 


•g  CALIBAN  « 

There  were  many  such  conversations  in  the  office, 
though  the  Rustingtons,  analytical  and  interested, 
were  few.  Bulmer  attracted  mainly  two  kinds  of 
men — the  American  showman  type,  and  the  young 
romantic  who  believed  in  him  as  his  marshals  did 
in  Napoleon.  They  stayed  with  him  as  long  as  they 
could,  and  he  made  few  changes  on  his  editorial  side : 
there  was  no  reason  to  dismiss  those  men;  they  were 
only  dictaphones  into  which,  every  day,  he  spouted 
his  policy.  It  was  the  special  writers  went  quickly; 
as  soon  as  he  had  emptied  them  of  their  freshness 
and  their  ideas.  But  of  those  who  stayed,  some  grew 
subject  to  him  as  women  to  a  masterful  lover;  others 
hated  him  because  he  absorbed  their  individuality 
as  the  rhizopod  surrounds  its  food;  they  hated  him 
because  he  paid  them  so  well  that  they  could  not 
get  free :  these  grew  cynical,  took  to  reading  Punchy 
to  morphia,  to  golf,  to  anything  to  convert  life  into 
a  jolly  lie.  Others  despised  him  because  his  mind 
was  crude;  those  respected  him  much  more  than 
they  despised  him,  because  they  had  no  will,  and  like 
snapping  dogs  were  flattered  by  his  casual  caresses. 
All  of  them  felt  some  love  for  him,  because  he  was 
young  and  naive.  They  liked  the  way  in  which  he 
said,  "I  know."  Or  again:  "If  I  like,  to-morrow  the 
government  will  do  this.  I  only  have  to  speak  the 
word."  And  they  did  not  mind  his  talking  big 
about  the  best  hotels,  the  right  makes  of  cars,  and 
contradicting  on  inside  knowledge.  He  was  a  master, 
often  an  unjust  master,  and  so  his  justice  took  upon 
itself  the  guise  of  mercy,  and  his  favor  made  privilege. 


Chapter  IX 
Peer 

THE  election  of  January,  1910,  gave  a  new  direc- 
tion to  Buhner's  misty  desires.  Until  then  he 
had  been  political  in  so  far  as  a  newspaper  proprietor 
must  be  so.  And  he  had  been  a  Liberal  because  he 
disliked  those  who  were  established  and  hated  the 
inert.  But  he  had  not  thrown  all  his  energy  into 
the  political  side,  partly  because  the  Bulmer  of  the 
Daily  Gazette  was  still  very  much  the  Bulmer  of  Zip, 
and  maintained  an  undying  interest  in  questions 
such  as,  " Should  girls  wear  socks?' '  His  diver- 
sions were  still  the  diversions  of  the  people  whom  he 
served,  and,  like  them,  politics  resolved  themselves 
rather  into  a  struggle  where  you  backed  blue  against 
red  without  quite  knowing  why,  and  shouted,  "Go 
it,  little  'un!"  The  dignity  of  Parliament  irritated 
him;  he  would  have  been  happier  in  elections  con- 
ducted as  at  Eatanswill. 

But,  having  been  compelled  to  take  up  a  political 
cause,  he  had  done  so  with  his  natural  virulence, 
and  inside  ten  years  had  established  power.  The 
opposition  hated  him,  but  half  hoped  to  win  him; 
his  own  party  flattered  him  and  was  unsure  of  him. 
But  the  rank  and  file  loved  him  because  he  was  no 
more  political  than  they,  and  understood  that  while 

249 


«  CALIBAN  l£ 

they  wanted  some  reason  to  go  on  voting  Liberal, 
they  really  preferred  pictures  of  royal  weddings,  and 
paragraphs  about  people.  As  a  result  of  this  he  re- 
ceived two  invitations  to  contest  a  seat,  one  hope- 
less, the  other  in  Cornwall,  and  quite  promising.  He 
hesitated  for  a  long  time  over  the  Cornish  seat.  Sir 
Richard  Buhner,  M.P.!  That  would  be  nice.  He 
saw  himself  making  speeches,  bringing  down  the 
government.  Might  do  something  startling,  too: 
what  about  fancy  waistcoats,  like  Disraeli?  But  an 
instinct  held  him  back.  M.P.,  yes,  very  nice.  Still, 
one  would  be  worried.  One  would  get  whips  telling 
you  you  had  to  attend,  and  telling  you  how  to  vote. 
Of  course  he  could  do  as  he  liked,  but  ...  he  told 
himself  that  it  would  be  a  nuisance;  what  he  did 
not  tell  himself  was  that  he  must  start  low  in  politics 
and  make  his  way.  He  realized  that  obscure  people, 
like  the  Junior  Whip,  various  twopenny  lawyers, 
would  have  power  to  interfere  with  him,  just  because 
they'd  been  ten  years  in  the  House.  He  struggled 
very  hard;  he  even  consulted  Alford  and  Tarland. 
He  believed  in  Tarland  because  the  engineer's  aloof- 
ness from  notoriety  impressed  him.  He  wanted  Al- 
ford and  Tarland  to  support  him  in  a  probably  un- 
wise course.  He  knew  it  would  be  ridiculous  to 
take  a  referendum  of  his  readers  on  the  question, 
bat  he  would  have  liked  to  do  so.  Finally  he 
refused. 

But  the  incident  did  not  leave  him  unaffected. 
At  bottom  he  resented  the  condition  which  had 
prevented  him  from  taking  something  that  he  did 
not  really  want.  So,  having  decided  not  to  become 
a  politician,  he  grew  violently  political.    He  devel- 

250 


%  PEER  « 

oped  for  Mr.  Lloyd  George  a  taste,  half  reverent, 
half  antagonistic,  and  when  the  House  of  Lords 
threw  out  the  Budget  and  challenged  the  power  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  Buhner  flung  himself  into 
the  combat  with  extraordinary  enthusiasm.  He 
ceased  to  take  any  interest  at  all  in  his  periodicals, 
except  Zip,  because  that  was  his  baby  and  his  mas- 
cot. He  surprised  Alford  and  Benson  by  cutting  out 
at  the  last  moment  articles  on  the  best  creepers  with 
which  to  garnish  suburban  pillars,  and  replacing 
them  by  abundant  Lobby  Notes.  The  Gazettes 
turned  more  and  more  into  violent  party  papers, 
and,  almost  immediately  after  the  challenge,  all 
came  out  with  a  plain  demand  for  the  abolition  of 
the  House  of  Lords.  For  the  excess  of  one  is  the 
normality  of  another,  and  Buhner  had  not  been 
able  to  resist  overbidding  the  Daily  News  and  the 
Daily  Chronicle.  He  had  to  soar  above  their  timid 
proposals  for  the  control  of  aristocrats.  For  six 
months  he  waged  an  extraordinary  campaign.  Day 
after  day  he  published  fragments  of  "Our  Old 
Nobility,"  placing  in  the  stocks  of  public  opinion 
one  titled  family  after  another.  It  was  a  flaming, 
raging  exposure;  he  advertised  the  thefts  and  bar- 
barities by  means  of  which  the  original  earl  had 
acquired  his  land;  or  he  told  at  length  the  history  of 
the  king's  mistress,  who  originally  earned  this  barony 
and  that  dukedom.  Tiring  of  this  after  a  while,  he 
turned  to  the  moderns,  began  reprinting  reports  of 
old  divorces  and  breach-of-promise  cases,  in  which 
had  figured  living  peers.  Members  of  noble  families, 
who  had  emigrated  for  unpleasant  reasons,  were  dis- 
covered by  young  specialists  whom  he  employed. 

251 


*£  CALIBAN  *g 

He  fought  two  libel  actions,  won  one  and  lost  the 
other,  but  in  both  cases  printed  the  report  in  full, 
so  that  nobody  might  miss  the  charge  made  against 
him  and  the  charges  he  made.  Indeed,  the  second 
case,  where  he  lost  heavily,  provided  a  splendid 
advertisement,  for  all  the  Gazettes  came  out  with 
this  placard: 

£20,000  DAMAGES 
AGAINST   BULMER 


In  the  same  issue  they  took  up  another  noble  vic- 
tim, handling  him  yet  more  severely,  adding  as  a 
footnote,  "This  may  cost  us  £20,000,  but  by  Jove, 
it's  worth  it!" 

It  was  a  lonely  struggle,  for  his  staff  lacked  his 
taste  for  excess.  Most  of  them  were  journalists  of 
long  training,  and  they  were  accustomed  to  exposure 
and  attacks,  but  they  were  not  used  to  going  on  with 
them.  Their  idea  was  to  snap  at  somebody  as  they 
ran  past  him,  like  a  bad-tempered  collie,  and  then 
go  on  to  something  else.  They  were  recording  in- 
struments, and  felt  no  sympathy  with  persistent 
campaigns.  And  the  government  had  a  way  of 
conveying  to  him  that  they  were  very  much  obliged, 
of  course,  but  they  did  wish  he'd  do  it  differently. 
They  were  rather  frightened  of  him.  Indeed,  in 
1910,  the  Liberal  Government  found  the  situation 
awkward.  They  had  not  gone  in  their  reforming 
program  as  far  as  they  wanted;  they  had  antago- 
nized Labor  by  their  moderation,  and  yet  they  had 
been  forced  by  the  House  of  Lords  into  a  conflict 
which  they  did  not  want  and  for  which  they  had  no 

252 


*$  PEER  ]B 

stomach.  They  wanted  to  preserve  the  House  of 
Lords,  because  they  felt  that  it  would  always  pro- 
tect them  against  having  to  keep  their  pledges. 
When,  one  day,  Bulmer  guessed  this,  and  said 
that  Mr.  Asquith  was  like  a  little  commercial 
traveler  who,  in  a  tap-room,  challenged  a  navvy, 
and  was  pushed  out  into  the  back  yard  by  an 
enthusiastic  crowd  who  wanted  to  see  the  fight, 
he  was  making  a  statement  of  fact  devoid  neither 
of  drama  nor  of  verisimilitude.  Bulmer  had  a 
few  interviews  with  the  usual  go-betweens,  who 
tried  to  teach  him  dignity.  He  proved  very 
difficult. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  to  an  under-secret ary,  "do 
you  want  the  job  done  or  don't  you?" 

The  under-secretary  explained  that  they  did  want 
the  House  of  Lords  curbed,  and  that  also  they 
didn't.  Of  course  they  wanted  the  job  done,  but 
they  didn't  want  the  job  done.  Couldn't  Sir  Rich- 
ard appreciate  the  difference? 

But  Bulmer  was  not  yet  political  enough,  and, 
sending  all  under-secretaries  to  the  devil,  proceeded 
to  discover,  first  in  Mr.  Lloyd  George  and  then  in 
Mr.  Churchill,  the  man  who  could  save  the  country. 
Mr.  Lloyd  George  lasted  nine  weeks,  and  Mr. 
Churchill  four  days,  at  the  end  of  which  Bulmer, 
perceiving  no  more  men  fit  to  save  the  country,  lost 
the  capacity  for  understandable  speech  and  had  to 
break  out  into  cartoons.  A  very  satisfying  one,  in 
December,  was  the  House  of  Lords'  Football 
Match,  first  fifteen  vs.  second,  in  which  the  House  of 
Commons  figured  as  the  football.  On  election 
morning  the  Daily  Gazette  came  out  in  sixteen  pages 

253 


°$  CALIBAN  *« 

instead  of  ten,  each  one  of  the  six  new  pages  being 
solely  occupied  by  the  words: 

VOTE  FOR  THE  LIBERALS! 
DOWN  WITH  THE  HOUSE  OF  LORDS! 

The  victory  was  won,  but  narrowly.  The  Liberal 
administration,  with  a  majority  of  forty — a  majority 
founded  on  the  quicksands  of  the  Irish  vote — felt  the 
need  for  all  the  support  it  could  get.  After  all,  Bul- 
mer  had  worked  very  hard  for  them.  .  .  . 

"A  peerage!"  thought  Bulmer,  without  any  cyni- 
cism. He  told  himself,  "Fm  a  lord."  A  song  in 
"The  Earl  and  the  Girl,"  that  Weedon  Grossmith 
used  to  sing,  passed  through  his  mind: 

I've  a  mansion  in  Park  Lane  and  several  country  houses, 
I'm  a  lord,  I'm  a  lord. 

What  should  he  call  himself?  Bargo?  After 
Bargo  Court,  of  course.  Lord  Bargo?  No,  Bargo 
wouldn't  do.  That'd  been  Ellie's  idea,  because  if 
he  called  himself  Lord  Bargo  she  wouldn't  have  to 
change  the  initials  on  the  linen.  No,  people  would 
write  verses  about  him  if  he  did  that,  and  make  his 
name  rhyme  with  cargo.  Pity  he  couldn't  call  him- 
self Hertfordshire,  but  he  supposed  they  wouldn't 
let  him,  since  there  was  already  a  Marquis  of  Hert- 
ford. It  worried  him,  and  he  went  through  the 
gazetteer  to  find  a  pleasant  name.  He  didn't  think 
Northcliffe  had  chosen  well.  Nothing  like  so  good 
as  Harmsworth.  Then  he  whistled.  Why  lose  his 
name?    Why  turn  himself  into  a  geographical  ex- 

254 


*8  PEER  *8 

pression?  Hang  it  all!  the  name  of  Buhner  was  a 
property,  like  the  name  of  Heinz,  the  baked  beans 
man. 

'Til  be  Lord  Buhner,"  he  thought,  "Lord  Bulmer 
of  Bargo  Court,  and  damn  the  College  of  Heralds 
and  the  Record  Office." 

The  opposition  was  overjoyed.  They  printed  as 
a  parallel  one  of  his  articles  of  a  year  before,  and  his 
Letters  Patent.  A  Liberal  weekly  paragraphed  him 
under  the  title  of  "Coronets  for  One,"  suggesting 
that  he  thought  his  head  the  only  one  worth  .  .  . 
presumably  strawberry  leaves  by  and  by. 

"I  say,"  said  Alford,  "do  you  think  we  ought  to 
do  anything  about  this,  sir?" 

"Nothing  at  all.  Don't  advertise  them,  and  for 
God's  sake  don't  call  me  sir,  even  if  it  is  in  the  book 
of  etiquette.  What  in  hell  do  you  think  I  care  for 
a  peerage?  All  it  means  is  that  I  can't  be  had  up 
by  a  court  of  law,  and  can  only  be  tried  by  my 
peers.  Nice  privilege;  they'd  hang  me  for  twopence 
after  what  I've  said  about  'em." 

He  really  did  enjoy  it  very  much,  and  for  some 
time  wrote  letters  instead  of  telephoning,  so  as  to 
sign  "Bulmer"  and  not  Richard  Bulmer.  Life  was 
good  in  those  days.  Things  happened.  One  day 
it  was  the  opening  of  the  London  Opera  House,  and 
a  chance  for  a  great  prize  competition  to  discover  a 
British  musical  genius  (and  acquire  the  copyright  of 
his  compositions  for  free  distribution  as  an  adver- 
tisement). Or  it  was  the  Insurance  Act,  and  day  by 
day  putting  ginger  into  Masterman,  and  making  the 
government  hop.  He  still  made  the  government 
hop;  they  had  thought  to  seduce  him  with  a  peerage, 

255 


H  CALIBAN  *8 

but  they  did  not  succeed.  If  Bulmer  had  lived  in 
ancient  Athens  and  they  had  put  an  ox  upon  his 
tongue,  he  still  would  have  talked. 

The  people  most  impressed  were  Hettie  and 
Eleanor.  Hettie  was  impressed  because  she  thought 
it  wonderful  to  have  a  titled  relative.  She  was  still 
ridiculous;  she  still  wrangled  with  Eleanor,  and  she 
figured  at  receptions  with  a  majesty  that  concealed 
fear.  As  for  Eleanor,  she  still  counted  his  collars 
when  they  came  back  from  the  wash,  and  grumbled 
at  the  coal  bill,  but  at  last  she  reluctantly  acknowl- 
edged that  Dick  had  succeeded.  She  had  backed 
her  mother  in  the  latter's  anger  and  shame  when 
Bulmer  abandoned  a  safe  job  in  the  City  for  the 
uncertainties  of  Zip,  but  now  she  grudgingly  realized 
not  only  that  he  had  made  a  great  deal  of  money, 
but  also  that  he  seemed  safe.  People  who  weren't 
safe  didn't  get  peerages.  And  she  became  almost 
affectionate  when  a  disagreeable  little  weekly,  under 
the  title  of  Things  We  Want  to  Know,  asked, 
"Whether  Lord  Bulmer  is  a  hundred  thousand 
pounds  poorer  now  he's  a  lord?" 

Bulmer  did  not  mind.  It  didn't  matter;  if  they 
thought  he'd  got  his  title  for  nothing,  then  they 
must  think  he  had  got  there.  If  they  thought  he  had 
bought  it  then  they  must  think  him  very  rich,  which 
meant  that  he  had  got  there  in  another  way.  He 
knew  whether  he'd  paid  for  it  or  not,  and  the  rest 
was  nobody's  business.  But,  anyhow,  even  if  he 
had  paid,  the  Daily  Gazettes  would  all  the  same 
attack  the  sale  of  honors. 

For  some  months  people  called  him  the  Weather- 
cock.   He  did  not  mind;  the  world  was  too  interest- 

256 


IS  PEER  °g 

ing.  Had  not  the  South  Africans  come  over  to  meet 
the  Australians?  Had  not  T.  J.  Matthews  done  the 
hat  trick  twice  in  one  day?  And  had  not  the  Titanic 
provided,  together  with  an  exciting  wreck,  a  splendid 
agitation  in  favor  of  life-belts  for  all,  and  a  chance 
to  offer  an  exciting  prize  for  the  best  life-saving  ap- 
paratus, to  be  shown  at  the  special  Daily  Gazette  Ex- 
hibition at  the  White  City?  He  liked  being  a  lord. 
One  couldn't  be  ignored.  One  could  only  be  adver- 
tised by  hatred.  But  he  realized  in  himself  a  new 
dignity.  Yes,  he'd  attacked  the  House  of  Lords, 
he'd  cried  for  its  abolition.  But  it  hadn't  been 
abolished;  was  that  his  fault?  He  was  a  member 
of  the  House  of  Lords;  he  hadn't  sought  admission. 
If  he  was  a  member  of  it  he  could  no  longer  submit 
to  its  being  extinguished,  and  he  could  not  allow  it 
to  be  inferior  or  ignoble.  Without  any  warning  the 
Daily  Gazette  took  up  the  gilded  chamber,  and  opened 
a  competition  for  the  best  essays  on  the  reform  of  the 
House  of  Lords,  such  essays  not  to  exceed  half  a 
column  and  to  have  a  paragraph  every  five  lines. 
Bulmer  had  an  honest  vision  of  this  new  toy.  A  few 
sittings  convinced  him  that  there  was  in  the  House  of 
Lords  a  sort  of  solid  good  will.  He  dreamed  of  ex- 
cluding the  backwoodsmen,  who  only  came  up  to 
interfere.  His  taste  for  the  colonies  and  for  commer- 
cial success  led  him  to  prepare  a  scheme  where  most 
of  the  hereditary  peers  were  excluded,  where  the 
humanized  localities  from  the  wilds  of  Shropshire 
were  replaced  by  leading  lawyers,  chairmen  of  banks 
and  of  railway  companies,  representatives  of  the  free 
churches,  and,  to  show  his  liberalism,  secretaries  of 
trade-unions. 

257 


]8  CALIBAN  *g 

LORD  HELP  THE  HOUSE  OF  LORDS 

shouted  all  the  Daily  Gazettes,  And  the  Evening 
Gazette,  and  Zip,  and  The  Talebearer,  and  Mollie's 
Own  Journal,  and  Jackie1  s  Own  Journal,  and  TFee 
Winnie's  Weekly,  all  piped  in  their  childish  treble 
Buhner's  dream  of  reform. 


Chapter  X 
At  Bar  go  Court 

POOR  old  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Felton,  "you  look 
tired."  She  nodded  toward  the  little  Vernis 
Martin  table.  "You  shall  have  your  tea  as  soon  as 
I  can  boil  the  kettle."  Mr.  Felton  watched  his  wife 
for  a  moment  as  she  knelt  by  the  gas  stove,  equil- 
ibrating a  copper  kettle  on  the  whispering  flame. 
Lying  in  a  comfortable  arm-chair,  his  slippered  feet 
toward  the  stove,  he  felt  at  rest.  About  him  the 
small  service  flat  was  pleasant,  with  its  white  walls, 
its  mahogany  tables,  upon  which  stood  a  very  few 
Lowestoft  bowls.  He  looked  at  himself  and  his  little 
world,  made  yet  smaller  by  the  convex  mirror  that 
reduced  the  room  to  a  photograph  of  a  stage  scene. 
The  Feltons  were  poor  in  the  way  that  the  well-to- 
do  are  poor.  Besides  his  salary  as  a  member  they 
had  four  hundred  a  year  of  their  own.  They  lived 
in  this  flat  of  three  rooms,  eating  contentedly  the 
sort  of  meals  the  restaurants  of  service  flats  provide, 
dining  out  a  little,  dining  people  a  little,  going  to 
Ranelagh  when  somebody  gave  them  a  voucher, 
and  on  Sundays  to  the  Zoo  when  a  fellow  offered 
them  a  ticket.  They  had  no  children.  They  had 
been  married  twenty-five  years,  and  still  managed 
to  be  fond  of  each  other,  though  once  they  had  been 

259 


•8 CALIBAN ]8 

much  in  love.  Mr.  Felton  attended  regularly  at 
the  House,  and  sat  on  many  committees,  where  he 
did  his  best,  which  was  quite  good  of  its  kind,  but 
not  inspired.  Mrs.  Felton  collected  Lowestoft  china 
and  took  an  interest  in  female  orphans  that  had 
lost  both  parents.  Both  liked  to  dress  in  gray,  and 
both  well  enough,  yet  not  too  well.  After  a  moment 
Mr.  Felton  said: 

"You  don't  know  how  good  it  is  to  see  you  doing 
that,  Maisie." 

She  smiled  up  at  him,  pleased. 

"  After  Bargo  Court,  I  mean.  One  couldn't  boil 
a  kettle  at  Bargo  Court.  One  would  telephone  to 
the  housekeeper's  room,  who,  presumably,  would 
send  a  requisition  to  the  butler,  who  would  notify 
the  cook,  who  would  direct  some  underling  beyond 
the  conception  of  my  poverty.  Like  getting  some- 
thing done  in  a  government  office,  but  quicker. 
Then,  from  among  nine  different  kinds  of  tea,  Lord 
Buhner's  favorite  brand  would  be  selected;  a  test 
would  be  made  by  an  expert,  with  water  imported 
from  Pekin.  The  teapot  would  be  scalded,  and  its 
temperature  taken  with  a  clinical  thermometer. 
Meanwhile  the  water  would  be  boiling  for  a  period 
controlled  by  a  chronometer  checked  at  Greenwich. 
There  would  be  an  expert  in  pouring,  to  fill  the  tea- 
pot; and  the  brew  would  not  be  spoiled  by  waiting 
overlong  between  kitchen  and  drawing-room,  for 
the  time  employed  in  transit  would  have  been  cal- 
culated by  a  pedometer.  Finally  the  tea  would 
arrive,  and  the  presiding  lady  would  say,  'Milk  and 
sugar?'  just  like  that.  'Milk  and  sugar?'  as  if 
nothing  dramatic  had  happened. " 

260 


*8?  AT  BARGO  COURT  *8 

"Don't  be  silly,"  said  Mrs.  Felton,  laughing.  Her 
mild,  ironic,  old  husband,  who  hated  nothing,  but 
who  observed  and  analyzed  much  more  than  Bulmer 
suspected,  still  amused  her.  But  she  was  very  femi- 
nine and  knew  exactly  what  she  wanted  to  know. 
So  she  said: 

"Who  was  there?" 

"Not  a  large  party.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alford,  and 
Sir  Thomas  Eggington  and  his  wife,  and  R.  J.  Camp- 
bell. And  there  was  Miss  Bulmer,  you  know,  the 
one  who  looks  as  if  she'd  swallowed  a  poker  and  it'd 
got  stuck  sideways.  It's  an  experience,  meeting 
Campbell;  spirituality  radiates  from  his  eyes, 
brotherhood  from  his  hair.  He's  very  beautiful  in 
a  way.  I  sometimes  think  when  I  meet  a  fashion- 
able preacher  ..." 

"I  hear  Lady  Eggington's  very  pretty,"  said  Mrs. 
Felton.     "What  did  she  wear  at  dinner?" 

"Sorry,  old  girl,  I  didn't  notice.  But  she  is 
pretty." 

"Of  course  you'd  notice  that,  you  old  devil.  But 
you  didn't  notice  her  frock.  What's  the  good  of 
you?  I  suppose  you  didn't  notice  Mrs.  Alford's 
frock  either?    Oh,  why  didn't  I  go?" 

"You  were  asked." 

"Is  it  my  fault,"  cried  Mrs.  Felton,  aggravated, 
"that  I  thought  I  was  going  to  have  'flu,'  and  made 
you  go  alone  because  it  might  be  useful?" 

"Well,  next  time  I  promise  you,  I'll  look  out. 
But,  you  know,  you'll  come  with  me  that  time,  and 
you  won't  be  noticing  frocks  either.  You'll  just  sit 
down  and  notice  nothing  but  Bargo  Court  and  Bul- 
mer.   When  you're  with  Bulmer  you  don't  notice 

261 


«  CALIBAN  j£ 

other  people  and  other  things  any  more  than  you 
notice  electric  light  when  the  sun's  shining.  The 
house!  The  house  is  enough  to  keep  you  busy. 
You  start  in  the  car  that  brings  you  from  the  sta- 
tion; the  size  of  it!  You  roll  about  in  it.  Plate- 
glass  windows!  carriage  clock!  telephone  to  the 
driver!  Indicator!  right,  left,  stop,  slow,  fast. 
There's  no  switch  for  'I've  lost  my  hat!'  Little 
library!  Map  of  Hertfordshire,  map  of  England, 
map  of  heaven,  probably.  Cigarettes,  cigars. 
Liqueurs  under  the  seat,  probably,  but  I  didn't  look. 
That  goes  on  inside  the  house.  And  on.  Makes 
one  feel  disrespectful  to  get  into  the  rock-crystal 
bath  and  turn  the  silver  taps.  Towels  come  up  in 
the  service  lift,  baked  to  the  temperature  of  summer 
heat.  I  tell  you,  old  girl,  my  bedroom  gave  me  the 
jumps.  I  had  to  find  my  way  through  eleven 
switches  to  get  the  light  where  I  wanted  it.  On  the 
dressing-tables,  scent  bottles  fit  to  stock  a  beauty 
specialist.  Telephone  practically  in  the  bed.  Sec- 
retaire simply  chipping  with  note-paper  of  every 
conceivable  size.  Biscuits  and  soda  by  the  bed. 
And  something  like  five  hundred  volumes  in  the 
bookcase.  Evidently  Bulmer's  one  of  the  people 
who  buy  novels.  There  was  so  much  W.  J.  Locke 
that  I  had  to  rush  to  the  biscuits  and  soda.  Culture, 
of  course;  also  a  touch  of  Shaw  (unopened),  The 
Crock  of  Gold  (uncut)." 

"Poor  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Felton,  sympathetically, 
"wasn't  there  anywhere  you  could  get  away  from 
it?" 

"Hardly.  There  wasn't  a  table  without  a  Brad- 
shaw  (bound  in  calf),  a  Whitaker  ditto,  and  The 

262 


*8  AT  BARGO  COURT  *8? 

Red  Book,  and  77ie  i?^e  Book,  and  Burke,  and 
Debrett,  and  Dod.  I  expect  Crockford  was  some- 
where about  the  place.  I  hid  in  the  library  on 
Sunday  morning.  There's  a  grand  place  behind  the 
county  histories;  they  could  have  hidden  Charles  I 
there  from  thousands  of  Roundheads.  The  Parlia- 
ment could  never  have  got  past  the  dictionaries,  the 
encyclopedias,  the  treatises  on  hunting,  shooting, 
fishing,  the  Kiplings,  and  the  Paters,  and  the  Fitz- 
geralds;  all  the  histories  of  all  the  Englands,  and 
Mrs.  Aria  on  costume,  and  Tomkins  on  furniture, 
and  the  inventory  of  the  National  Gallery,  and  the 
Hundred  Worst  Pictures." 

"Did  you  get  on  with  the  people?"  asked  Mrs. 
Felton. 

"Do  you  know,  I  didn't  have  much  to  do  with 
them  and  they  didn't  have  much  to  do  with  each 
other.  Nobody  wanted  to.  Everybody  wanted  to 
talk  to  Bulmer.  I  don't  think  Mrs.  Alford  said 
anything  but  'Yes,  my  lord,'  or  'No,  my  lord,' 
except  when  she  said,  'Oh,  my  lord.'  Poor  dear, 
I'm  sure  Alford  rowed  her  for  calling  him  'my  lord,' 
but  she  did  love  doing  it.  Oh,  I  can  feel  the  white 
woolly  mat  that  lies  under  the  cork  mat  in  the  bath- 
room, and  the  soul  of  Morny  rise  from  the  varieties 
of  bath  salts." 

Mrs.  Felton  laughed.  "Anyhow,  you  seem  to 
have  done  yourself  well.  I  suppose  Lord  Bulmer 
makes  it  his  chief  occupation  to  do  himself  well?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.  I  think  he  does  these 
things  en  bloc.  Gets  a  specialist  down  from  Coun- 
try Life,  and  tells  him  to  turn  him  out  a  modern 
but  stately  home  of  England,  and  then  thinks  of 

18  263 


jB CALIBAN ^^^     *$ 

something  else.  He's  awfully  decent.  He's  not  only 
got  a  convalescent  home  for  his  staff  a  couple  of 
miles  off,  but  the  morning  I  was  there  he  was  writing 
one  of  them  a  little  note.  The  office  notifies  him 
when  anybody's  sick,  and  he  sends  whatever's  suit- 
able. When  they're  getting  better,  his  secretary- 
sees  to  it  that  he  writes  them  a  few  nice  words. 
And  when  he  hears  something's  happened  in  one  of 
their  families,  a  death  or  something,  he  sends  them 
all  to  the  seaside,  or  lends  them  a  car  and  a  chauf- 
feur for  a  few  days.  And  as  he  gets  hundreds  of 
newspapers,  they're  cleared  out  every  night  and  sent 
to  the  hospitals  while  they're  fresh." 

"He  must  be  a  nice  man,"  said  Mrs.  Felton. 

"He  is.  He's  always  doing  something  for  people, 
especially  if  they're  in  revolt  against  their  families. 
That  must  have  something  to  do  with  his  own  past. 
He's  got  all  sorts  of  young  men  in  the  colonies  and 
in  America,  for  whose  training  he's  paying.  He 
actually  told  me  that  no  young  man  or  no  young 
woman  has  done  any  good  until  they've  broken 
their  mother's  heart  by  following  their  own  fancy 
and  then  mended  it  by  succeeding  in  their  career. 
He's  got  no  idea  of  personal  discipline.  He  seems 
to  think  marriage  a  sacrament;  he  says  that  we  owe 
respect  to  the  Church,  and  he  wants  to  maintain 
the  king;  he  thinks  there  is  something  in  woman 
that  should  make  gross  man  ashamed." 

"Quite  right,"  said  Mrs.  Felton. 

"He  hasn't  read  Man  and  Superman,"  said  Mr. 
Felton.  "Anyhow,  he  doesn't  want  to  alter  society, 
and  yet,  he  wants  to  alter  individuals.  Everybody 
likes  a  greyhound,  straining  at  the  leash.    That's 

264 


11  AT  BARGO  COURT  ^ 

what  he  wants.  It  doesn't  connect,  you  know.  Thus 
one  might  paint  everything  in  the  world  pink,  and 
yet  leave  the  world  itself  just  as  it  was.  Fact  is, 
he's  got  no  general  ideas;  he  likes  to  enjoy,  he  likes 
to  make  money;  if  he  could  get  a  bat  big  enough  he'd 
play  cricket,  using  the  world  as  a  ball.  He's  sort  of 
mischievous  in  a  friendly  way,  like  a  bright  school- 
boy, and  yet  he's  solemn,  responsible.  But,  summing 
it  all  up,  the  world  is  his  tuck-shop." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Mrs.  Felton,  "you  don't  expect 
him  not  to  enjoy  himself.  Here's  your  tea,  made 
by  an  amateur.  But  it'll  have  to  do,  after  all  your 
grandeur." 

Mr.  Felton  pursued  the  subject.  Two  days  of 
contact  with  Bulmer  had  obviously  made  upon  him 
a  heavy  impression.  He  drew  a  vivid  picture  of 
this  young  man  of  forty-two,  greedy,  impulsive, 
ruthless,  kindly,  closed  to  ideas,  and  infinitely  in- 
terested in  them.  According  to  him,  Bulmer  was 
mainly  a  soft-hearted,  amiable  man,  who  wanted 
to  see  everybody  well  off,  or  at  least  with  enough 
money  in  their  pockets  to  buy  the  things  he  adver- 
tised in  the  Daily  Gazettes.  Thus  the  Daily  Ga- 
zettes would  get  advertisements,  and  people  would 
get  things,  and  everybody  would  be  happy.  Also, 
he  liked  his  power,  and  frankly  acknowledged  that 
he  liked  having  big  staffs  because  he  felt  fit  for  that 
responsibility. 

"We  talked  about  books  a  bit,"  said  Mr.  Felton. 
"I  find  he  likes  his  own  serials;  he  reads  Zip  for 
pleasure.  And  he  likes  .  .  .  well,  people  like  Jacobs, 
and  the  racing  novels  of  Cooper  and  Nat  Gould,  and 
the  Jerome  humor,  the  sort  of  books  one  sees  on  a 

265 


°%  CALIBAN  *8 

bookstall.  But  all  sorts  of  other  things,  too;  me- 
moirs, books  of  travel,  and,  what  is  amazing,  unex- 
pectedly good  novels.  I  think  he  likes  everything. 
Everything  gives  him  ideas,  suggests  something  that 
is  happening.  How  can  I  put  it?  Yes,  he  never 
says,  'one  day/  or  'in  the  future/  or  'I  wonder.' 
But  he  does  say,  'this  is/  'I  am  arranging/  Bul- 
mer  is  the  present,  and  he  makes  it  plausible.  Prob- 
ably because  he  believes  in  it  so  violently,  because 
he  enjoys  it  so.  He  likes  what  he  has  and  he  likes 
to  show  it,  with  a  sort  of  naive  vanity.  For  in- 
stance, he's  always  saying  things  like,  'Asquith  told 
me  the  other  day  .  .  ./  or  'a  few  weeks  ago,  when 
I  was  dining  at  Albemarle  House  . .  .'  " 

"Oh,  bragging? "  said  Mrs.  Felton. 

"Yes  and  no.  He  does  brag,  but  he's  modest. 
He  never  pretends  to  know  when  he  doesn't.  He 
said  to  me,  'I  know  nothing  about  literary  criti- 
cism.' And  to  Sir  Thomas,  'I  don't  understand 
finance' ;  (this  as  if  he  didn't  want  to  understand,  as 
if  he  only  wanted  to  record).  Still,  he's  full  of  opin- 
ions. It's  funny,  one  of  the  things  he's  keenest  on 
is  the  woes  and  snares  of  wealth." 

"I  suppose  he's  very  rich?" 

"Oh,  very.  Nobody  knows.  Somebody  told  me 
the  other  day  in  the  smoking-room  that  one  could 
fix  on  him  well  over  eighty  thousand  a  year,  but  it 
must  be  more.  There  he  is,  talking  and  talking 
about  the  rich  and  their  bad  digestions,  and  their 
inability  to  enjoy  things,  and  about  their  children 
who  marry  the  wrong  people,  or  their  sons  who  get 
into  debt  or  bad  company.  As  if  he  were  afraid 
of  his  wealth.    Like  the  tyrant  of  Samos,  who  got  so 

266 


"8  AT  BARGO  COURT  « 

frightened  when  everything  turned  out  right  that  to 
propitiate  fate  he  threw  his  favorite  ring  into  the  sea." 

"And  a  fish  brought  it  back,"  said  Mrs.  Felton, 
smiling. 

"Yes,  that  might  happen  to  Bulmer,  unless  he 
cracks  up  through  nervous  excitement  and  satisfies 
fate  that  way.  You  see,  he's  always  excited,  like 
an  octopus  with  roving  tentacles,  in  case  something 
were  to  go  by.  He's  always  buzzing  on  the  tele- 
phone, talking  to  the  Daily  Gazette,  and  giving  them 
exciting  information;  or  raving  because  the  govern- 
ment is  hiding  news  from  Ireland,  or  something. 
He's  always  got  his  steam  up,  and  he  never  gets 
exactly  under  way.  Of  course,  he's  always  full  of 
judgments,  things  that  excite  him.  He  says  that 
we  can't  coerce  Ulster  because  we're  too  sentimental 
to  shoot.  And  if  we  did  shoot  Protestants  we'd 
only  get  the  Nonconformists  rising.  He's  got  sense, 
in  a  way,  a  sort  of  practical  sense — like  a  comfortable 
man  in  the  City.  That's  why  the  comfortable  men 
follow  him.  He  understands  them,  he  understands 
their  pleasures,  Zip,  snippets  of  information,  the 
cinema.  To  him  man  is  a  weary  giant,  and  he 
thinks  it's  his  job  to  wake  him  up.  He  wakes  him- 
self up,  you  know,  and  then  he  feels  lonely.  Feels 
he's  got  to  stir  up  the  rest.  And  there  he  sits,  stimu- 
lated in  a  sleepy  world.  And  when  he  can't  think 
of  anything  to  wake  it  up  with,  I  think  he  goes  out 
and  buys  things  to  flog  his  own  interest.  Anything; 
newspapers,  blocks,  pads,  telegraph  forms,  any- 
thing, just  to  be  busy." 

"He  must  feel  rather  uncomfortable  in  this  sleepy 
country.    More  tea?    It  hasn't  stood  very  long." 

267 


*S?  CALIBAN  "$ 

"Yes,  I  think  he'd  have  been  happier  in  America. 
His  violent  judgments  would  have  gone  down  better 
there.  The  roving  energy  of  the  Americans,  their 
push,  their  rapidly  erected  civilization  would  have 
suited  him  better.  He  likes  the  colonies,  he  likes 
their  independence;  he  says  the  colonies  don't  care 
a  hang  for  us  and  would  cut  the  painter  any  day. 
And  to  hear  him  talk  about  the  Cabinet  is  a  lesson 
in  invective.  According  to  him,  some  of  them  drink 
and  some  of  them  drug,  and  some  do  both,  and 
they're  all  immoral.  I  suppose  he  won't  spare  me 
if  ever  I  attain  those  dizzy  heights.  You  see,  he 
doesn't  exactly  judge  people.  He  gets  an  impression 
of  them.  When  he's  dealing  with  a  Cabinet  Minis- 
ter, that  process  is  too  rough.  No  Ministers  are 
black,  and  none  are  white;  they're  all  spotty.  That's 
why  he  gets  on  so  well  with  the  masses,  they're 
definite.  He  understands  their  love  of  material 
property,  their  hatred  of  brutal  truth,  their  passion 
for  an  excitement  to  enliven  their  gray  lives.  And 
he  can  find  the  material  to  interest  them  because  he's 
interested  in  everything.  In  thirty-six  hours  he 
talked  to  me  about  politics,  about  golf,  about  the 
running  of  newspapers,  about  Bernard  Shaw,  whom 
he  calls  a  good  stunt,  about  Wells,  whom  he  likes 
because  his  science  business  is  catching  on;  he  talked 
architecture,  and  how  much  better  they  built  in 
Germany;  about  railways,  and  the  shocking  state 
of  by-lines;  about  the  Yellow  Peril — he's  awfully 
afraid  of  it.  And  he  talked  about  the  suffragettes 
— he's  dead  against  forcible  feeding.  '  Let  'em  starve/ 
he  said.  '  It'll  satisfy  the  dramatic  instincts  of  the 
public.'    It  was  like  sitting  for  thirty-six  hours  in  a 

268 


•g  AT  BARGO  COURT j8 

second-class  railway  carriage  coming  up  from  Sur- 
biton.  But  he's  got  something  that  they  haven't, 
something  terrific,  intensity  of  interest,  intensity  of 
will.  He  knows  desperately  what  he  wants.  He 
may  catch  flies,  but  he's  got  the  mind  of  a  Hon. 
Somehow,  shrilly,  coarsely,  stupidly,  by  energy,  by 
occasional  generosity,  by  courage,  he's  managed  to 
stumble  into  greatness." 


Part   IV 
WAY  WITHOUT  END 


So  as  who-so-ever  hee  bee,  to  whome  Fortune  hath  beene  a  servant, 
and  the  Time-  a  friend:  let  him  but  take  the  accompt  of  his  memory 
(for  wee  have  no  other  keeper  of  our  pleasures  past)  and  truelie 
examine  what  it  hath  reserved,  either  of  beauty  and  youth,  or  fore- 
gone delights;  what  it  hath  saved,  that  it  might  last,  of  his  dearest 
affections,  or  of  whatever  else  the  amorous  Springtime  gave  his 
thoughts  of  contentment,  then  unvaluable;  and  hee  shall  finde  that 
all  the  art  which  his  elder  yeares  have,  can  draw  no  other  vapor  out 
of  these  dissolutions,  than  heavie,  secret,  and  sad  sighs.  .  .  . 

— Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  Historie  of  the  World. 


Chapter  I 
Janet 

SHOOT  'em/'  said  Lady  Collingham,  "shoot 
'em.  Line  'em  up  against  a  wall,  one  in  ten. 
Wouldn't  get  any  more  strikes  or  rebellions  in  what's 
its  name?  Ireland?  Know  what  I  mean?"  The 
old  lady  looked  round  her  dinner-table  with  a  smile 
of  excessive  amiability. 

"Don't  you  think  that's  rather  extreme,  Lady 
Collingham?"  said  young  Ramsey,  of  the  Foreign 
Office  by  day  and  of  Ciro's  by  night. 

"Extreme?  Stuff  and  nonsense!"  cried  Lady  Col- 
lingham, in  her  famous  Sarah,  Duchess  of  Marlbor- 
ough style.  "Why!  shootin's  too  good  for  'em.  I 
wouldn't  shoot  a  man  like  Parkin,  or  Barkin,  or 
Larkin,  or  ...  or  what's  his  name.  Boil  him,  I 
say,  boil  him." 

"After  he's  done  his  six  months,"  remarked  Mr. 
Simpson.  "Can't  boil  him  till  he's  served  his  time. 
It'd  be  illegal,  you  know." 

Lady  Collingham  shook  her  untidy  tow  and  gray 
hair  at  him,  and,  wrinkling  her  little  features,  made 
a  face  like  an  ancient  monkey. 

What  do  you  say,  Lord  Buhner?"  she  asked. 
Oh,  of  course,  I  forgot.    You're  a  Radical,  ain't 
you?    Must  have  been  one  of  your  young  men  stole 

273 


it 
tt 


*8  CALIBAN <$ 

the  Crown  jewels  from  the  Castle.  You  want  Bed- 
mond  as  Premier,  don't  you?  Bedmond?  Charlie, 
is  his  name  Bedmond  or  is  it  Redmond?  Well, 
never  mind,  make  it  Traitor." 

The  little  party  laughed,  for  everybody  adored 
Lady  Collingham,  her  virulence,  her  frequent  un- 
intelligibility,  and  her  immense  enthusiasm  for  all 
novelty,  provided  it  was  not  political.  Her  husband 
was  still  enchanted  with  her,  and  once  in  his  life  had 
defined  her:  "Bessie  won't  let  me  call  my  soul  my 
own,  but  the  little  cat's  welcome  to  it."  The  con- 
versation went  on  about  Ireland,  because  that  coun- 
try always  brought  Lady  Collingham  to  her  maxi- 
mum temperature,  and  in  those  moments  she  was 
most  amusing.  So,  for  some  time,  Bulmer  carelessly 
accepting  the  Radical  label,  defended  the  Home 
Rule  bill. 

"What  about  Asquith's  last  speech?"  shrieked 
Lady  Collingham,  waving  her  little  claws. 

"Rather  weak,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Bulmer.  "I 
rather  wish  he'd  never  gone  to  Ladybank." 

"He  who  goes  to  Ladybank  goes  to  Canossa 
to-morrow,"  said  Mr.  Ramsey.  This  cryptic  re- 
mark completely  devastated  the  conversation.  Lady 
Collingham  swiftly  asked  Mr.  Simpson,  who  was 
just  back  from  Paris,  whether  it  was  true  that  white 
hair  was  going  out,  and  whether  those  green  and 
blue  wigs  were  really  a  success.  Sir  Charles  Colling- 
ham engaged  his  neighbor,  Clara  Milford,  suffra- 
gette, three  times  in  jail  for  window-breaking,  and 
once  for  church  burning,  while  Mr.  Ramsey  turned 
to  fat  Mrs.  Simpson,  whom  Bulmer  had  taken  in, 

and  began  discussing  the  new  stamped  velvets,  con- 

274 


JANET  ^ 


trasting  them  with  the  light-flowered  velvets  which 
were  then  in  for  opera  wraps.  Bulmer,  suddenly 
suspended,  looked  once  more  at  his  neighbor.  They 
had  exchanged  a  few  words  over  the  soup;  he  had 
had  a  fleeting  sensation  of  a  slim  young  woman  with 
a  warm  complexion  and  a  certain  air  of  cold 
modesty. 

"Have  you  seen  'Joan  of  Arc'?"  he  asked  (for 
he  had  learned  what  to  say  to  people  one  doesn't 
know). 

"Yes,"  said  the  woman;  and  he  remembered  that 
she  had  been  announced  as  Mrs.  Willoughby.  "I 
didn't  like  it  very  much.  I  think  Raymond  Roze 
has  overdone  the  pageantry.    Don't  you?  " 

"No,"  said  Bulmer.  "I  can't  say  that  struck  me. 
You  know  Joan  of  Arc's  life;  well,  it  was  rather 
sensational,  wasn't  it?  Battles  and  bangs,  and  pro- 
cessions, and  crowning  kings,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  Must  have  been  pretty  busy,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  religious  stunt.  You  know,  religion  is  like  a 
newspaper;  takes  a  lot  of  advertising.  If  I  could 
get  a  girl  like  Joan  of  Arc  to  boom  the  Daily  Gazette, 
why,  we'd  wipe  the  floor  with  the  London  press." 

She  smiled  with  an  air  faintly  amused,  and  opened 
gray-green  eyes  that  struck  him  as  peculiar.  They 
were  not  peculiar,  but  Janet  Willoughby  always 
seemed  to  stare  a  little,  because  her  eyelids  were  ex- 
cessively curved  in  the  middle,  and  so  the  eyes  looked 
large  and  round.  As  she  did  this  she  raised  her 
eyebrows,  and,  for  a  moment,  Bulmer  lost  continuity 
of  ideas.  He  went  on  talking  carelessly,  a  little  dis- 
comfited by  her  interest,  which  was  altogether  in- 
tense and  cold.    As  he  did  so  he  observed  her  more 

275 


00> 


CALIBAN  "g 


closely.  Indeed,  she  was  very  slfrn,  rather  thin,  and 
as  she  breathed  the  blue  silk  of  her  frock  rose  very- 
little.  Upon  her  faintly  yellow  shoulders  lay  straps 
of  blue  and  silver.  She  wore  no  jewels,  save  at  the 
breast — a  large  silver  plaque  studded  with  sapphires. 
The  conversation  wandered  from  Joan  of  Arc. 

"I  suppose  it's  very  hard  work  running  all  those 
papers,"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby,  with  a  polite  air. 

"Yes,  it  is,  and  one  pretty  well  has  no  time  to  do 
anything  else.     But  one  doesn't  want  to." 

"How  very  interesting,"  she  said,  opening  very 
wide  her  gray-green  eyes.  He  noticed  the  healthy 
color  that  lay  over  the  yellow  skin,  the  rather  ill- 
dressed"  brown  hair,  and  the  small,  regular  teeth. 
Untidy  hair  and  good  teeth.  Mrs.  Willoughby  was 
obviously  well-bred.  He  noticed  her  hands,  too; 
large,  but  fairly  well  formed,  and  faintly  red.  Girlish 
hands  and  bony  wrists.  With  her  long  arms,  her 
suggestion  of  a  long  body,  and  her  raw  forlornness, 
in  her  clothes  of  flaming  silver  and  excessive  blue 
she  looked  like  a  drawing  by  Char  din. 

There  was  a  little  disarray,  for  Lady  Collingham 
began  to  scream  as  Bulmer  refused  to  promise  to 
come  next  day  with  her  to  a  tango  tea. 

"Oh,  do  come,"  she  implored.  "You  won't? 
Your  last  chance?" 

"No,  I  won't,"  said  Bulmer,  obstinately.  "I'm 
not  a  dancing  bear." 

"You  won't?    Then  I  shall  tell  what  I  know." 

"And  what  do  you  know,  Lady  Collingham?" 
asked  Mr.  Ramsey. 

"Lord  Bulmer  knows  what  I  know,"  said  the  little 
lady,  in  sinister  tones. 

276 


U  JANET  °£ 


n 

a 


Not  guilty/'  said  Buhner. 
Oh,  yes  you  are,"  said  Lady  Collingham. 
Every  man  of  your  age  is  guilty.  If  you  weren't 
you  wouldn't  be  fit  for  society.  Lord  Bulmer,  I 
hang  it  over  you.  If  you  don't  appear  to-morrow 
at  the  Queen's  Theater  at  half  past  four,  I  shall  tell. 
And  don't  think  you  can  buy  me  off  by  putting  my 
picture  in  your  nasty  Radical  papers,  like  you  did 
Mrs.  Schloppenstein  the  other  day,  after  treading  on 
her  train." 

"Now,  Bessie,  really,"  said  Sir  Charles. 

"Charlie,  don't  aggravate  me.  Haven't  I  known 
for  forty-five  years  that  I  married  the  wrong  man, 
without  your  rubbing  it  in?  But  what  could  I  do?" 
she  asked,  helplessly.  "They  didn't  make  men  like 
you  in  my  time,  Lord  Bulmer." 

Everybody  laughed;  one  always  laughed  at  Lady 
Collingham,  for  when  she  wasn't  funny  she  was 
saucy.  But  Bulmer  did  not  quite  like  it.  He  had 
precedence  at  court  over  all  this  crowd,  but  still 
...  it  was  so  difficult  to  know  when  they  were 
chaffing.  As  if  Mrs.  Willoughby  had  observed  his 
flush,  and  yet  wished  to  say  nothing  about  it,  she 
murmured: 

"Isn't  she  a  darling?  It's  a  sharp  tongue  but  a 
kind  heart." 

Bulmer  looked  at  her  quickly.  He  was  not  intui- 
tive enough  to  know  that  she  understood  his  em- 
barrassment, but  he  felt  a  vague  sympathy  that 
warmed  him,  so  he  was  impelled  to  confidence,  and 
said,  vaguely: 

"One  feels  a  fool." 

"But  one  isn't  a  fool,"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby. 

277 


*g  CALIBAN  « 

"Oh,  I'm  not  being  modest,"  said  Buhner,  "only 
.  .  .  they  chaff." 

"There's  nothing  in  it,"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby. 
"I  don't  think  she'd  have  married  you.    Not  really." 

"That's  just  it,"  said  Bulmer,  with  sudden  sulki- 
ness.  "She  wouldn't.  And  no  woman's  got  the 
right  to  say  the  contrary  of  the  thing  she  means, 
letting  you  understand  it.  If  she  really  does  mean 
the  contrary.    If  she  tells  the  truth  she's  lying." 

"I  say,"  replied  Mrs.  Willoughby,  "that's  very 
subtle." 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  replied  Bulmer.  "But,  you 
know,  nobody  ever  called  me  subtle." 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  you  conceal  the  wisdom  of  the 
serpent;  well,  not  by  means  of  the  cooing  of  the 
dove,  but  still  with  some  effect." 

Bulmer  looked  at  her  again.  Her  calmness,  her 
cool  air,  her  assured,  grammatical  sentences,  at- 
tracted him.  He  saw  that  her  nose  was  rather  long, 
and  that  she  had  thick,  red  lips,  rather  poor  in 
curves.  He  tried  to  compare  her  with  something; 
what  he  was  looking  for  was  "ice  maiden,"  but  he 
couldn't  find  it.  So  he  hurried,  and  soon  was  talking 
about  newspaper  booming.  She  listened  gravely, 
genuinely  interested.  As  he  felt  this  he  grew  boast- 
ful, told  her  the  story  of  the  great  placard  of  the 
Daily  Gazette  and  how  he  had  recovered  from  his 
premature  announcement  of  peace  with  the  placard : 
Peace  signed  !  The  Daily  Gazette  told  you  so  yes- 
terday! Who's  first  with  the  news  now?  She 
laughed.  They  were  in  the  drawing-room  now,  and 
Mr.  Simpson  was  very  softly  playing  fragments  on 
the  piano,  while  Lady  Collingham  sat  by  his  side, 

278 


*8  JANET 


stroked  into  repose  by  the  music  she  loved.  The 
others  gathered  round  the  mantelpiece,  where  Clara 
Milford  was  grinding  the  faces  of  the  men,  while 
Mrs.  Simpson  amiably  heaved  in  a  large  chair.  So 
Bulmer  and  Mrs.  Willoughby  talked  for  a  long  time. 
She  liked  the  frank  vanity  with  which  he  exhibited 
his  origins,  and  for  the  sake  of  interesting  her  he 
exaggerated  his  early  poverty. 

"How  wonderful  it  must  be  to  have  risen  as  you 
have,"  she  said,  "while  I  .  .  .";  she  leaped  away 
from  self-revelation  like  a  frightened  fawn. 

"Yes/'  said  Bulmer,  "but  you  know,  rising  .  .  . 
one's  never  sure  one's  on  top.  If  one's  born  on  top 
one  can't  fall  off.  And  if  I  fell  off  I'd  have  a  long 
way  to  come  down." 

"But  you  won't  fall  off,"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby. 
"You'll  rise  and  you'll  rise  until  you  bang  your  head 
against  heaven." 

"Then  I  get  a  bang  whatever  I  do,"  said  Bulmer. 

She  laughed,  and  he  felt  witty.  Mrs.  Willoughby 
wondered  if  she  liked  him.  Of  course  it  was  an  ex- 
perience, meeting  him,  the  man  who  was  going  to 
beat  Northcliffe.  And  he  was  not  disappointing  her; 
he  exhibited  all  the  private  energy  and  the  ruthless- 
ness  which  she  had  expected.  But  she  had  not  ex- 
pected to  find  him  modest.  It  was  a  curious  feeling, 
and  a  little  repulsive.  He  had  captured  so  much 
wealth  and  power,  how  dared  he  also  grasp  at 
modesty?  She  smiled  at  herself  as  she  reflected  that 
there  was  something  pleasant  even  in  that  ultimate 
greed.  While  she  thought  Bulmer  stared  at  her, 
forgetting  by  degrees  details  of  her  personality  and 

attaching  to  those  of  her  person.     He  did  not  con- 
19  279 


«  CALIBAN  Tg 

elude  that  she  was  beautiful;  he  was  critical  of 
women's  points,  and  he  saw  that  the  long  nose  made 
her  look  inquiring,  but  the  whole  effect  of  her,  her 
height  especially — for  she  was  taller  than  he — her 
amiable  negligence,  her  courteous  self-assurance, 
filled  him  with  an  exquisite  desire  to  touch  her, 
reverently,  perhaps.  She  disturbed  him.  And  she 
seemed  so  unaware  of  it.  She  talked  to  him  like  a 
well-bred  young  lady  in  her  first  season.  She  regis- 
tered what  he  said  with  interest,  but  without  emo- 
tion. He  felt  the  need  to  know  her  better,  and  grew 
clumsy. 

"I  haven't  met  your  husband,"  he  said. 

"I'm  a  widow." 

"Oh,  sorry.  Perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  have  asked 
that." 

"  Why  not?     I'm  not  in  mourning." 

"Did  he  .  .  .?" 

"He  died  eighteen  months  ago." 

Bulmer  paused.  He  knew  he  was  being  indis- 
creet, but  he  could  not  stop.  "I  suppose  it's  very 
hard,"  he  said,  "being  a  widow  so  young;  and  all 
alone." 

"I'm  not  so  young."  After  a  pause,  seeing  that 
he  was  going  to  question  her,  and  as  if  she  decided 
to  save  him  from  his  own  indiscretion,  "I'm  twenty- 
six.     I've  got  a  little  boy.     That's  all." 

After  a  long  pause  he  said,  "I  hope  you'll  let 
me  come  and  see  you."  He  knew  he  ought  not  to 
say  that  yet,  but  for  a  long  time  he  had  chosen  to 
say  what  he  chose,  and  he  found  people  so  ready  to 
accept  this  attitude  that  it  had  become  a  habit,  even 
though  he  disapproved  of  it. 

280 


°g  JANET  H 

"I  shall  be  very  pleased,"  said  Mrs.  Willoughby. 
"Don't  bother  about  my  address.  It's  in  the  tele- 
phone book  under  Mrs.  K.  W.  Willoughby." 

Buhner  did  not  that  night  go  to  sleep  at  once. 
He  was  puzzled  rather  than  preoccupied.  He  re- 
created her  before  his  eyes,  and  swore  because  he 
had  forgotten  for  the  sake  of  their  redness  the  shape 
of  her  lips.  For  some  time,  sitting  in  his  pajamas, 
he  remained  in  vague  meditation.  Then  he  sud- 
denly jumped  up  and  went  to  the  dressing-table  to 
look  at  himself  in  his  shaving  mirror.  The  enlarged 
picture  of  his  features  came  up.  Still  fresh!  Rather 
a  lot  of  gray  about  the  temples.  But  his  blue  eyes 
were  very  clear,  and  his  thin,  intelligent  face, 
pleased  him.  By  degrees  he  saw  himself  no  more; 
divorced  from  his  body,  his  spirit  sped  on  misty 
pinions  into  an  impalpable  realm.  He  was  uplifted 
in  an  intolerable  delight,  to  which  he  tremulously 
gave  the  name  of  love.  At  last  he  switched  off  the 
light  and,  as  he  got  into  bed,  said  aloud : 

"I  want  her.  I'll  get  rid  of  Vi.  I  must.  Yes, 
I  want  her.  Lady  Collingham  called  her  Janet. 
Janet!" 

He  telephoned  Vi  at  about  half  past  eight  next 
morning.  It  was  a  short  conversation,  characteris- 
tic of  both  of  them. 

"I  say,"  said  Buhner,  "I  want  to  divorce  you." 

"What!"  said  Vi,  in  a  trembling  voice,  wondering 
whether  he  had  found  out  about  the  secretary  of 
the  bridge  club. 

"Want  to  divorce  you,  see?  You'll  be  all  right. 
I'll  make  it  worth  your  while." 

"I  never  heard  of  such  impertinence,"  gasped  Vi. 

281 


*$  CALIBAN  IS 

"And,  anyhow,  I  don't  think  it's  gentlemanly  to 
discuss  it  over  the  telephone." 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  must  argue  about  it  I'll  come 
along.     I'll  be  with  you  in  half  an  hour.     Good-by." 

The  interview  produced  no  results,  for  Vi  soon 
discovered  that  Bulmer  knew  nothing  about  her 
affair,  which  was  now  finished,  and  had  been  replaced 
by  a  feeble  intrigue  with  a  flying  man,  aged  nineteen, 
and  stationed  at  Hendon. 

"I  don't  see  it  at  all,"  she  replied,  when  he  had 
done.  "Why  should  I  let  you  divorce  me?  One 
might  think  I'd  behaved  badly." 

"That's  not  the  question.  I  just  want  to  make 
an  arrangement.  Everybody  does  that.  There's 
not  one  divorce  in  ten  that  isn't  a  fake." 

"Well,  if  that's  so,"  said  Vi,  "and  if  I  was  to 
agree,  it  seems  to  me  it's  for  me  to  divorce  you,  not 
you  me." 

"Oh,  I  can't  have  a  fuss.  In  my  position  it'd  be 
awkward." 

"Well,  what  about  my  position? "  said  Vi.  "What 
do  you  think  my  friends  would  say?" 

"Oh,  damn!"  said  Bulmer.  "How  much  will  you 
do  it  for?    What  about  ten  thousand  a  year?" 

Vi  hesitated  for  a  moment.  It  was  a  lot.  Still, 
what  would  she  do  with  it?  The  boy's  tastes  were 
modest. 

"I  don't  see  it  at  all,"  she  said,  at  last.  "You 
don't  think  I'm  going  to  call  myself  Mrs.  Violet 
Bulmer,  or  Lady  Violet  Bulmer,  or  whatever  it  is, 
after  being  Lady  Bulmer.     No  fear." 

They  argued  for  a  long  time  without  result.  Bul- 
mer realized  that  if  he  told  her  that  he  wanted  to 

282 


JANET  °£ 


marry  somebody  else,  then  on  no  terms  would  she 
divorce  him,  even  if  he  agreed  to  that. 

In  reality  he  knew  that  it  would  not  come  to  that. 
The  idea  of  running  away  with  Mrs.  Willoughby  did 
not  frighten  him  so  very  much,  even  though  a 
divorce  was  more  serious  for  a  Liberal  than  for  a 
Conservative.  Only  the  idea  of  Mrs.  Willoughby 
running  away  with  him;  well,  really  .  .  . 

He  went  to  see  his  solicitor.  Another  unsatisfac- 
tory interview.  He  realized  in  advance  that  it  would 
be  unsatisfactory,  for  he  could  not  escape  knowing 
a  little  law. 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  the  solicitor,  "that  one  of  you 
must  suffer." 

"How  do  you  mean,  suffer?" 

"Well,  one  of  you  has  got  to  do  the  divorcing,  and 
the  other  has  got  to  give  the  cause." 

"Oh,  I  know,  I  know,"  growled  Bulmer.  "But 
why  should  I  be  dragged  through  the  courts?  After 
all,  I  pay."  He  felt  injured;  if  a  man  was  ready  to 
give  a  woman  ten  thousand  a  year  to  get  rid  of  her, 
well,  really,  if  the  law  wouldn't  indorse  that  sort  of 
thing  it  was  unfair  to  the  woman. 

"No,  there's  nothing  for  it,  Lord  Bulmer.  It's  not 
for  me  to  recommend  collusion,  but,"  he  smiled, 
"I've  been  in  the  law  for  many  years  and  I've  come 
across  half  a  dozen  divorces  that  weren't  arranged 
— at  least,  I  think  they  weren't  arranged.  No  doubt 
if  Lady  Bulmer  were  to  become  aware  of  some 
irregularity  on  your  part,  and  if  she  realized  that 
you  would  agree  to  a  verdict  giving  her  this  very 
generous  allowance,  you  .  .  .  well,  I  could  talk  to  her 
and  we  should  see." 

283 


« CALIBAN *5? 

"But,  damn  it  all,  man!"  shouted  Bulmer,  "do 
you  really  think  I'm  going  to  Leicester  Square  and 
.  .  .  really  this  is  absurd.  To  begin  with,  I'm  a  peer, 
and  a  recent  creation  like  me  can't  do  these  things. 
If  the  barony  dated  back  to  Edward  VI,  I  don't 
say." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  In  these  days — "  The  so- 
licitor talked  for  some  time,  and  Bulmer  listened 
sulkily.  He  couldn't  very  well  tell  him  that  if  he 
followed  the  obvious  way  of  giving  Vi  cause  for 
divorce  he  would  spoil  his  chances  with  Janet.  As 
for  Janet,  well,  he  didn't  see  her  in  the  part  of  co- 
respondent. If  he  had  seen  her  so  he  would  not 
have  wanted  her. 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  solicitor,  negligently,  "if 
you'll  excuse  my  suggesting  such  a  thing,  but  .  .  . 
well,  Lady  Bulmer  has  been  living  apart  from  you 
for  a  long  time  .  .  .  sometimes  in  these  cases  ladies 
commit  imprudences." 

Bulmer  did  not  understand  for  a  moment,  then 
bellowed  with  laughter:  "Vi!  One  can  see  you  don't 
know  her.  Besides,  she's  forty-six."  The  solicitor 
said  nothing.  He  knew  women  of  forty-six,  especially 
women  of  forty-six  with  several  thousand  a  year. 

"No,"  Bulmer  went  on,  "that's  no  good."  He 
remembered  her  slowness,  the  brooding  passion 
which  he  had  not  understood  and  taken  for  indiffer- 
ence, Vi's  lack  of  social  taste,  her  way  of  looking 
away  from  men  which  to  him  suggested  coldness. 

"No,"  he  said  again,  "she  prefers  chocolate." 

"Well,  one  never  knows,"  said  the  solicitor.  "It 
wouldn't  cost  very  much  to  get  somebody  to  keep 

an  eye  on  her  for  a  little." 

284 


IB  JANET  « 

"All  right/'  said  Buhner.  " You  have  a  try.  But 
you  won't  catch  anything." 

Buhner  was  right,  for,  after  two  months,  the  de- 
tectives reported  that  Lady  Bulmer's  life  was  quite 
orderly,  and,  indeed,  that  she  often  went  to  bed  at 
half  past  nine.  The  attempt  might  have  been  suc- 
cessful if  Vi  had  not  been  terrified  by  the  interview 
and  had  not  dismissed  the  flying  man.  Realizing 
that  Buhner  wanted  to  get  rid  of  her  she  was  ready 
to  go  to  any  extreme  of  virtue  rather  than  content 
him.  So  all  Buhner  got  was  an  idea  for  the  reform 
of  the  divorce  law,  which  provided  a  savage  but 
valuable  correspondence  in  Zip  and  paid  for  the  legal 
expenses. 

Meanwhile,  the  new  attraction  gained  strength. 
Taking  advantage  of  her  implied  consent  he  called 
on  Mrs.  Willoughby  at  her  flat  in  Bickenhall  Man- 
sions. She  received  him  in  a  spirit  that  was  either 
cool  pleasure  or  reluctant  disapproval.  He  did  not 
quite  know  which.  Seated  on  the  couch  behind  her 
tea-table,  she  was  like  a  fresh,  green  shrub,  with 
tight  blossoms.  She  talked  commonplaces  with  an 
original  twist.  She  listened  to  him  endlessly,  and  he 
expressed  himself  with  a  new  facility. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  "I  can't  explain  what  I 
mean,  only  I  try  to  tell  you  things  in  the  way  I  feel 
them." 

" Don't  you  always  do  that?" 

"I  don't  know.  No,  I  don't  seem  to  try  with 
other  people.  I  just  say  what  I  mean,  but  with  you 
I  try  to  say  what  I  really  mean." 

She  flushed  slightly,  for  she  was  one  of  those 
women  to  whom  an  intelligent  approach  makes  a 

285 


CALIBAN  *8J 


stronger  appeal  than  a  cry  of  passion.  And  it  was 
flattering  that  this  great  man  should,  for  her,  try 
and  fail.  He  was  very  happy  with  her,  for  she  did 
not  provide  him  with  the  feather-bed  of  adulation 
that  he  found  in  most  men  and  all  women;  she 
stimulated  him.  She  suggested  to  him  that  within 
his  being  lived  something  subtle  and  exquisite  which, 
with  her  help,  he  might  rescue,  and  her  surroundings 
charmed  him.  She  had  a  taste  for  white  paint,  and, 
indeed,  there  was  in  the  flat  no  crude  color.  The 
couch  was  made  of  gray  linen  and  was  sprinkled 
with  cushions  of  black,  silver,  pale  blue,  and  water- 
green.  Mrs,  Willoughby  refused  to  be  affected  by 
her  period.  Bakst  and  the  Russian  ballet,  Futurism, 
the  crimson  denunciation  of  Blast,  did  not  touch  her. 
She  moved  among  women  clad  in  scarlet  and  gold, 
turbaned  in  emerald,  stockinged  in  cobwebs,  but 
remained  gracious  and  aloof  in  her  pale,  disdainful 
gowns.  She  lived  among  Georgian  furniture  and 
Queen  Anne  silver;  as  a  rule,  when  he  went  to  her, 
he  found  in  her  large,  shapely  hands  a  book  of  verse 
bound  in  white,  or  essays,  mauve  inside  and  out. 
They  had  come  to  a  certain  familiarity.  He  had 
dined  at  her  flat  with  pleasant,  semi-elderly  people, 
who  had  heard  of  the  Daily  Gazette,  but  never  read 
it,  who  had  enough  money  and  wanted  no  more, 
who  did  nothing  very  much  except  make  ready  for 
the  country  when  they  were  in  town,  and  plan  visits 
to  town  when  they  were  in  the  country.  They  had 
nothing  at  all  to  say,  and  said  it  with  some  charm. 
It  was  rarefied,  this  atmosphere.  It  lent  itself 
neither  to  cartoon  nor  leaderette. 
She  had  shown  him  her  little  boy,  too,  a  large, 

286 


JANET  % 


solemn  child  of  two,  rather  like  her  with  his  large, 
appraising  eyes.  Jack  was  getting  to  know  him,  and 
sometimes  gave  him  a  condescending  smile.  And 
he  touched  him  with  some  emotion;  it  struck  him 
once  that  to  hold  small  Jack  must  be  rather  like 
holding  her.  Jack  was  so  consenting  without  being 
desirous;  he  was  so  polite  about  it,  though  friendly. 
For  now  Buhner  was  wholly  in  love  with  Janet 
Willoughby.  They  were  still  formal;  called  each 
other  Lord  Bulmer  and  Mrs.  Willoughby.  But  once 
he  came  for  her  in  the  Rolls-Royce  and  insisted  on 
taking  her  to  Kew  Gardens.  She  hesitated  a  little, 
but,  seeing  nothing  that  she  could  object  to,  agreed. 
Her  nearness  was  delicious,  and  in  the  hothouses 
she  stood  among  the  orchids  and  the  palms;  about 
them  the  scented  air  rose  humid  and  caressing.  She 
affected  him  extraordinarily;  so  cool  beside  these 
sensuous  flowers.     Suddenly  he  said : 

"How  different  you  are  from  them.     You're  like 


warm  snow." 


She  smiled.  She  did  not  understand  him,  but  she 
was  not  displeased.  She  did  not  know  what  she 
thought  of  him:  so  much  brutality  covering  a  spirit 
that  seemed  to  her  vulgarized  by  circumstance.  He 
told  her  how  much  the  greenhouses  had  cost  to 
build.  She  didn't  want  to  know  that.  But  she 
wondered  whether  she  would  have  liked  it  better  if, 
in  this  place,  he  had  spoken  swooning  verse.  She 
did  not  know  whether  she  liked  him;  he  embarrassed 
while  he  pleased  her.  He  so  manifestly  said  the  wrong 
thing.  He  was  .  . .  sensational.  But  it  was  his  func- 
tion to  be  sensational.  His  objectionable  qualities 
were  his  attractions;  only  excess  made  him  possible. 

287 


*8  CALIBAN  *8 

She  understood  him  better  when,  later  on,  he  made 
her  come  to  the  office  to  see  the  paper  through  the 
press.  He  began  by  taking  her  round  properly,  by 
showing  her  the  copy  as  it  was  handed  to  the  lino- 
type operator,  explained  the  machine  (much  to  her 
boredom);  he  made  her  follow  the  stereo-plates, 
showed  her  how  the  wet  molds  were  taken,  and  made 
her  stand  beside  the  press  and  spell  backward  from 
the  curved  plates  to-morrow's  news.  But,  after  a 
while,  he  could  not  bear  to  stay  outside  the  issue. 
While  showing  her  a  form  where  display  advertise- 
ments had  been  set  up  by  hand,  he  grew  enraged  by 
the  breach  of  a  small  regulation — one  line  of  type 
in  an  advertisement  had  been  drawn  from  the  same 
font  as  a  Daily  Gazette  heading.  He  shouted  for  the 
foreman,  who  came,  followed  by  several  compositors. 
He  rang  bells,  and  demanded  that  the  head  of  the 
shop  should  be  sent  for  at  once.  Irrelevant  persons 
joined  the  group,  and  when,  at  last,  the  mistake  was 
amended,  he  remembered  Janet,  who  stood  outside 
the  group. 

"Sorry,"  he  said,  "but  if  one  doesn't  keep  an  eye 
on  things  oneself,  well,  you  see  what  happens.  Do 
excuse  my  having  left  you  standing  there." 

She  smiled.  "Of  course  you  must  look  after  your 
work.    I  think  it's  splendid." 

He  gave  her  a  grateful  look.  He  understood  that 
she  was  telling  the  truth,  though  he  could  not  guess 
why  she  thought  him  splendid  and  how  much  she 
could  appreciate  his  disregard  of  her.  He  thought 
he  should  stay  by  her  side,  as  she  was  his  guest, 
while  she  was  glad  to  find  him  caught  up  by  a  sort  of 
creative  impulse  and  become  a  rough,  inhuman  figure. 

288 


!£  JANET  °£ 

More  and  more  often  now,  though  he  dared  not 
test  their  relation,  he  looked  at  himself  in  the  even- 
ing in  his  shaving  glass. 

"Forty-two,  nearly  forty- three,"  he  said.  "And 
she's  twenty-six.  It's  a  lot."  Then  he  thought: 
"Well,  in  another  year  I  shall  be  forty-four.  That 
won't  improve  things.     Why  not  try  now?" 

But  he  did  not  try.  He  was  afraid,  for  she  roused 
in  him  none  of  the  consciousness  of  power  that  he 
had  found  in  other  women.  He  knew  that  her  re- 
fusal would  hurt  him  so  much  that  he  dared  not  risk 
it.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  ever  been 
afraid  of  anything.  Besides,  what  was  the  good? 
There  was  Vi.  He  was  so  disturbed  that  he  spent 
an  evening  with  Tarland  at  the  engineer's  dowdy 
house  in  West  Kensington.  He  intended  to  tell  his 
old  friend,  but  he  could  not:  he  was  like  a  miser 
unwilling  to  reveal  his  hoard.  Then  a  sudden  de- 
spair overcame  him.  The  future  was  hopeless.  He 
had  not  the  courage  to  assure  himself  of  its  hope- 
lessness. It  was  as  if  he  hypnotized  himself  into 
believing  that  there  was  hope.  There  was,  so  long 
as  he  did  not  test  it.  Suddenly  he  passed  through 
a  patch  of  hatred;  he  resented  Janet  and  his  desire 
of  her.  He  told  himself:  "I'm  not  going  to  make  a 
fool  of  myself.  I've  gone  too  far  as  it  is.  The  only 
thing  to  do  is  to  cut  my  loss." 


Chapter  II 
Cutting  a  Loss 

FOR  a  few  weeks  Bulmer  was  like  a  lion  in  the 
arena  after  the  emperor  has  pardoned  the  Chris- 
tians. Uncontrollable  fury  invaded  him.  He  felt 
the  need  to  assert  himself.  As  if  he  inwardly  realized 
his  cowardice  before  Mrs.  Willoughby,  as  if  to  regain 
his  self-esteem,  he  had  to  face  something  difficult 
and  dangerous.  He  had  read  Four  Feathers;  it  was 
a  little  like  that.  There  was  Ulster;  yes,  of  course, 
for  this  was  January,  1914,  but  he  was  tiring  of 
Ulster.  Being  a  Liberal,  he  obtained  no  satisfaction 
from  the  enlistment  and  parades  of  the  Carsonites, 
while  the  National  Volunteers,  arming  in  opposition, 
seemed  to  lack  the  impressive  quality  of  the  Ulster- 
men.  He  realized  that  this  was  because  the  Ulster- 
men  were  arming  against  the  law,  while  the  National 
Volunteers  prepared  to  uphold  it.  So  the  heroic  role 
fell  to  the  Ulstermen. 

Chance  led  him  to  discover  that,  some  years  be- 
fore, M.  Clemenceau  had  waged  a  ferocious  cam- 
paign against  official  delays  in  the  French  Civil 
Service.  A  sudden  destructive  joy  overwhelmed  Bul- 
mer. He,  too,  would  be  a  tiger.  He,  too,  would 
break  cabinets  and  raise  the  old  stones  of  Whitehall. 
The  assault  began  at  once  and  wras  frightful.     He 

290 


IB  CUTTING  A  LOSS  *g 

had  agents  in  every  government  office,  who  com- 
municated facts  over  the  telephone.  Within  a  week 
he  had  collected  endless  instances  of  delays  in  answer- 
ing letters,  of  forms  sent  to  people  who  were  dead  or 
in  lunatic  asylums;  he  caused  a  civil  service  drama 
to  be  composed,  where  the  principal  parts  were  taken 
by  "Snoozer"  of  the  War  Office,  "Slack"  of  the 
Local  Government  Board,  and  "Passiton"  of  the 
F.  O.  Snappy  Bits  came  out  with  a  song  entitled 
"Winnie  of  Whitehall,"  where  the  words  "more  de- 
lay, more  delay,"  were  set  to  ragtime.  When  at 
last  a  dossier  dealing  with  twenty-four  pounds  of 
apples,  which  had  been  allowed  to  rot  in  an  experi- 
mental farm,  was  stolen  from  the  Board  of  Agricult- 
ure, copied  by  twelve  typists,  and  returned  next 
day  to  the  unsuspecting  Board,  the  government  felt 
that  it  ought  to  do  something.  The  correspondence 
about  the  twenty-four  pounds  of  apples,  and  the 
compensation  due  to  the  farmer,  had  been  going  on 
for  six  years;  also  the  farmer  died,  leaving  the  case 
unsettled.  The  Daily  Gazette  took  up  this  pitiful 
story  under  the  title  of  "Who  Broke  the  Farmer's 
Heart?"  Day  by  day  portions  of  the  dossier  were 
printed.  And  to  make  quite  sure  that  the  public 
should  not  miss  the  point,  Buhner  caused  minutes 
reading  "Noted,  thank  you,"  or  "Passed  to  you, 
please,"  to  be  printed  in  block  lettering.  After  four 
days  the  government  realized  that,  at  this  rate  of 
publication,  the  revelations  would  go  on  for  several 
months.  They  knew  their  dossier;  it  was  a  large 
one.  Private  secretaries  telephoned;  a  few  kindly 
words  were  said  to  Buhner  at  dinner.  But  this  did 
not  move  him.    Indeed,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  print 

291 


*g  CALIBAN  **? 

reports  of  these  advances,  and  to  declare  that  he 
would  fight  to  the  last  apple. 

Then,  while  the  Attorney-General  was  considering 
whether  Buhner  could  not  be  prosecuted  under  the 
Official  Secrets  Act,  the  attack  stopped.  Refer- 
ences to  the  civil  service  ceased.  Bulmer  had  grown 
tired  of  the  campaign  and  had  substituted  therefor 
a  competition  with  a  thousand-pound  prize  for  a 
new  song  to  beat  "You  Made  Me  Love  You,  I 
Didn't  Want  to  Do  It."  Also,  after  a  month's  ab- 
stention, he  had  gone  back  to  Janet.  No  explana- 
tion took  place,  but  his  sudden  telephone  call  and 
his  hurried  question,  "Would  she  be  in  that  after- 
noon?" struck  her  as  significant.  She  hesitated  be- 
fore letting  him  come.  If  one  saw  a  good  deal  of 
a  man  regularly,  it  was  normal;  but  if  he  stopped 
coming,  and  then  returned,  he  implied  that  he  came 
for  more.  And  she  did  not  know  yet  whether  she 
was  attracted  to  him;  could  not  decide  whether  she 
was  to  be  attracted  entirely.  So  again  Bulmer  sat 
in  the  small  flat  and  played  with  Jack,  who  knew 
him  again,  but  obviously  treated  him  like  some  one 
he'd  met  in  society.  He  talked  more  about  his 
policy  than  he  had  done  until  then,  and  Janet  vent- 
ured to  disapprove  of  his  attack  on  the  civil  service. 

"What!"  said  Bulmer,  "you've  read  it?  I  thought 
you  didn't  read  the  Daily  Gazette" 

"No,  I  didn't.  But  after  meeting  you  and  hearing 
all  about  it .  .  .  well,  you  know,  one  gets  interested." 

Bulmer  looked  at  her  with  humble,  adoring  eyes. 
"Do  you  like  it?"  he  asked,  excitedly,  "now  that 
you  know  it  better?" 

She  hesitated.    He  was  so  intense  in  his  desire 

292 


<XL> 


£  CUTTING  A  LOSS  *g 


that  she  should  care  for  his  paper.  He  was  ridicu- 
lous. Other  men  had  wanted  her  to  care  for  them. 
But  he  was  touching;  it  was  so  selfless,  the  love  that 
he  gave  to  his  detestable  paper.     So  she  said : 

"Yes,  I  do,  very  much.     It's  so  bright,  so  intelli- 
gent.    Only,  of  course  .  .  ." 
"Of  course  what? " 

"Well,  you  don't  seem  to  care  what  you  hit.     Our 
old  traditions." 

"  I've  no  use  for  traditions.    I  make 'em.    I  made 

one  when  I  was  at  school.    It  lasted  seven  months." 

She  gave  a  high,  crystalline  laugh.  ' '  Seven  months, 

Lord  Bulmer!     I'm  afraid  your  tradition  hadn't 

much  staying  power." 

"Oh,  it  was  all  right,  only  it  got  worn  out.     You 
know,  traditions  wear  out  very  fast  in  these  days." 
"You  haven't  got  it  at  all,"  said  Janet.     "A  tra- 
dition, a  real  one,  can't  die." 

"Oh,  what  does  it  do?    Just  lie  about  and  block 
the  road?" 

"Some  people  think  so.  You  do,  I  believe." 
"No,  I  don't,"  cried  Bulmer,  anxious  to  like  what 
she  liked.  "I  tell  you  I'm  making  a  tradition;  the 
tradition  of  keeping  up-to-date.  The  tradition  of 
being  active  and  keeping  your  ears  open  to  every- 
thing, and  doing  everything,  and  understanding 
everything." 

"That's  not  a  tradition,"  said  Janet;  "that's 
epilepsy.  What  you  really  do  is  to  smash  traditions. 
Oh,  you  may  be  quite  right,  but  you  can't  make 
things  if  you  hate  them." 

"You've  got  to  smash  things  before  you  build  new 
things.    I've  no  time  to  love  things,  I  hate  too  many." 

293 


*g  CALIBAN  *8 

"But  surely  you  must  care  for  something,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  Daily  Gazette!  I  mean  abstract 
things;  your  country  or  your  party,  the  things  to 
which  you  belong.' ' 

"I  don't  belong  to  my  party.  My  party  belongs 
to  me." 

She  laughed.  "Then  you'll  never  be  a  citizen  of 
the  world,  for  the  world  can't  belong  to  you." 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  Bulmer.  "After  all,  it's 
a  long  life  and  a  small  world." 

"But  what  if  you  do  conquer  the  world?"  she 
said,  bending  forward,  her  eyes  very  wide.  "Sup- 
posing you  did  end  up  like  Napoleon,  will  you  care 
for  it?  Will  it  be  any  good  to  you?  You  want  to 
tread  on  the  world  instead  of  loving  it.  You've  got 
to  love  something,  you  know." 

After  a  long  pause  Bulmer  looked  at  her  with  a 
little  fear  in  his  eyes,  and  said,  rather  roughly: 

"What's  the  good  of  my  loving  what  I  can't  get?" 
She  understood  him,  and  drew  back.  "What's  the 
good  of  my  talking  about  it?  I'm  married.  She's 
not  a  bad  sort,  but  we've  lived  apart  for  years.  You 
know  all  about  it." 

"Yes,"  she  murmured,  "I  know." 

"Yes,  of  course  you  know.  You  know  all  the 
gutter  gossip  that  cor&es  from  people  I've  sacked, 
and  people  I've  cut,  and  people  I  won't  advertise. 
I  suppose  they  told  you  that  I  knocked  her  about, 
and  drank,  and  drugged.  Suppose  they  told  you  I 
tried  to  poison  her,  and  was  too  much  of  a  muddler 
to  finish  the  job  properly." 

"Don't,"  she  said,  shaken  by  his  bitterness. 
"You  know  you're  talking   nonsense."     She   felt 

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«  CUTTING  A  LOSS  *£ 

that  he  was  assuming  heroic  attitudes,  and  she 
hated  it. 

"It's  not  nonsense,"  he  went  on.  "It  would  have 
been  if  I'd  said  it  three  months  ago." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Janet. 

"I  didn't  feel  like  that  three  months  ago.  I  didn't 
know  you  then.  She  wasn't  in  my  way.  I'm  not 
used  to  having  things  in  my  way." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  No,  he  was  not 
taking  up  attitudes.  It  was  much  worse  than  that. 
And  suddenly  she  asked  herself  what  she  would  do 
if  he  were  to  rise  from  his  chair  and  come  closer. 
She  could  not  resist  her  interest  in  him;  he  was  re- 
pulsive in  the  way  that  a  rhinoceros  is  repulsive; 
only  one  can  dislike,  but  one  cannot  despise  a  rhinoc- 
eros. Then,  with  a  note  of  sincerity  in  his  voice 
that  she  could  not  mistake,  he  rested  his  head  in  his 
hands  and  said: 

"I  wish  I  was  dead." 

A  new  emotion  passed  through  her.  Now  that  he 
was  abased  she  felt  that  he  was  a  great  man,  and 
impulsively  she  bent  across  to  him  and  pressed  a 
weak  hand,  which  lay  limp  in  hers.  "Don't  de- 
spair," she  whispered.  "I  don't  know  why  I  say 
that;  I  don't  know  why  you  shouldn't  despair.  But 
you  know."  Then  she  freed  herself,  for  as  he  looked 
up  at  her  she  saw  in  his  eyes  such  an  entreaty  that 
she  feared  a  failure  in  her  strength,  now  that  his 
power  was  turned  to  weakness. 

He  left  her  soothed,  but  soon  the  sense  of  his 
unarmed  state  inflamed  him  with  rage.  He  sub- 
jected his  publications  to  the  devastating  criticism 
through  which  he  sometimes  vented  his  ill  humor. 

20  295 


W  CALIBAN  *8 

Within  a  few  weeks  he  got  rid  of  Ainsworth  and  re- 
placed him  by  Ford,  while  the  foreign  editor  of  the 
Daily  Gazette  was  replaced  by  Renton,  a  professor  of 
European  reputation.  And,  for  no  particular  reason, 
Ratcliffe  was  removed  from  Tittle  Tattle;  a  racy 
person  called  Oakley  took  over  the  work.  This 
violence,  these  novelties,  satisfied  in  Bulmer  a  sort 
of  revengefulness — if  he  could  not  rule  mankind,  at 
least  he  could  make  and  break  men.  He  liked  mak- 
ing a  man,  especially  a  young  one,  for  he  was  broad 
enough  to  feel  no  fear  of  the  young  generation,  and 
he  was  leader  enough  to  use  it.  He  quarreled  with 
youth  only  when  it  strove  to  lead,  and  then  expelled 
it,  full  of  contempt  rather  than  hatred.  But  he  was 
not  malicious;  when  youth  succeeded  he  always 
accorded  it  equality.  He  was  like  Mr.  Bernard 
Shaw's  tailor,  the  only  creature  in  the  world  that 
understands  young  men,  because  he  takes  their 
measure  anew  every  time  he  sees  them. 

Thus  the  assistant  editor  of  Snappy  Bits,  whom 
he  very  much  valued  because  the  man  had  been  a 
steward  on  the  P.  &  O.  and  acquired  amazing  infor- 
mation as  correspondent  for  Reuter,  insisted  on  leav- 
ing him  to  take  over  a  news  agency.  Bulmer  raged 
for  nearly  an  hour,  questioned  the  financial  chances 
of  the  venture,  and  refused  to  listen  to  replies. 
" You'll  fail.  Take  my  word  for  it,  you'll  fail.  It's 
all  rot.  It's  a  rotten  agency.  You'll  lose  your 
money.  And  don't  you  offer  us  any  news;  we've 
got  all  we  want.  I  didn't  think  you  were  such  a 
fool."  The  only  thing  that  Bulmer  did  not  say  was 
what  he  felt.  "You're  my  man.  Mine.  And  you 
mustn't  have  anything  of  your  own." .  But  the  man 

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*B  CUTTING  A  LOSS  « 

was  obstinate,  and  a  few  months  later  Bulmer  saw 
that  opposition  papers  were  buying  news  from  the 
agency.  Then  he  met  his  ex-subordinate  in  White- 
friars  Street.  Having  completely  forgotten  their 
angry  conversation  he  shook  hands  with  him  heartily 
and  said: 

"Well,  how  are  things?"  The  reply  satisfied  him.' 
"How  many  contracts?  Seven?  Oh!  And  two 
more  coming.  At  how  much  a  year?  Not  bad,  not 
bad.  Well,  well,  I'm  very  glad  you're  on  a  good 
thing.  I  always  thought  there  was  something  in 
news  agencies.  The  old  ones  have  got  into  a  rut. 
My  dear  chap,  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  that 
I  shoved  you  into  it." 

Bulmer  was  entirely  sincere.  All  he  remembered 
was  that  he  had  had  a  talk  about  the  agency;  now 
that  the  agency  was  gaining  support  he  instinctively 
ranged  himself  on  the  winning  side.  He  was  in  those 
days  already  martyred  by  the  opinion  he  had  created. 
Thus,  a  cartoonist  who  was  fighting  "Spy"  in  Vanity 
Fair,  and  called  himself  "Cockatoo,"  cartooned  him 
for  a  fashionable  weekly.  When  Bulmer  saw  the 
cartoon  he  lost  his  temper.  He  didn't  mind  being 
taken  off,  he  said,  but  he  did  want  to  know  whose 
caricature  it  was.  Who  the  hell  did  "Cockatoo" 
think  the  cartoon  was  like? 

"Like you,  sir,"  said  "Cockatoo." 

"You  must  be  dippy,"  said  Bulmer.  "Like  me! 
It's  like  you.  It's  like  anybody.  Let's  test  it." 
He  rushed  to  the  bell,  called  in  the  footman,  in- 
structed him  to  send  down  Eleanor  and  Henrietta 
at  once.  When  they  came  down  he  told  the  footman 
to  stay.    Then  he  made  him  fetch  the  butler.    Hold- 

297 


°£  CALIBAN  *S 

ing  up  the  caricature  he  challenged  them  to  say  it 
was  like  him. 

" Ridiculous !"  he  shouted.  " Absurd!  Were  you 
drunk  when  you  did  this?" 

Then  "  Cockatoo,"  who  had  a  temper,  forgot  that 
he  wanted  to  sell  Bulmer  the  original,  snatched  it 
away,  and  walked  out.  The  cartoon  appeared.  Six 
months  later  it  appeared  again  at  the  one-man  show 
of  " Cockatoo's"  collected  cartoons.  When  the 
Daily  Gazette  art  critic  did  the  show  he  naturally 
noticed  Buhner's  picture,  and,  assuming  that  "  Cock- 
atoo" was  a  protege  of  his  employer,  gave  him  a 
half-column  of  praise.  Next  morning,  in  bed,  Bul- 
mer opened  the  Daily  Gazette  and  saw  the  notice. 
He  read  it  carefully  to  the  end.  He  vaguely  remem- 
bered the  incident.  Then  he  reflected  that  perhaps 
he'd  been  hasty.  So  he  took  up  the  telephone  and, 
after  a  time,  " Cockatoo"  was  found. 

I  say,  old  chap,"  cried  Bulmer  into  the  receiver, 

seen  the  Daily  Gazette  this  morning?  WVve  given 
your  show  a  hell  of  a  notice.  Splendid,  my  dear 
chap,  splendid!  My  man  says  there  hasn't  been  a 
caricaturist  like  you  since  Leech.  Splendid!  How 
much  do  you  want  for  it?"  After  all,  the  Daily 
Gazette  was  public  opinion.  He  couldn't  help  it  if 
it  was  his  own  paper.  It  was  public  opinion  all  the 
same.  His  opinion.  You  couldn't  tell  one  from  the 
other. 

These  days  of  emotional  uncertainty  drove  him 
to  the  drug  of  enterprise.  In  the  five  months  that 
preceded  the  war  he  managed  to  create  the  Bristol 
Daily  Gazette  and  the  Wolverhampton  Daily  Gazette. 
Also,  he  developed  a  remunerative  line  of  novelettes, 

298 


*$  CUTTING  A  LOSS  **? 

now  run  by  Ford  as  "The  Buffalo  Bill  Series"  (for 
boys),  and  "The  Hildegarde  Novels"  (for  girls). 
His  new  cartoonist,  "Tick,"  became  famous  in  a 
few  weeks  in  Buhner's  new  comic,  entitled  "Smiles." 
Then  Bulmer  reflected  that  though  he  might  be  rich 
he  was  not  quite  serious  enough. 

"Religion!"  he  cried,  "that's  the  ticket.  We've 
never  given  religion  a  show,  and  there's  kick  in  it 
yet."  So  Bulmer  engaged  the  secretary  of  a  Metho- 
dist body  and  soon  had  him  running  "Ritual," 
which  was  very  high  church,  and  "The  Working 
Christian,"  which  sheltered  ethical  nonconformity 
under  a  thin  veneer  of  faith.  He  was  not  happy, 
but  he  was  excited  and  disturbed;  it  was  almost  as 
good. 


Chapter  III 
A  Paragraph 

BULMER  paused  for  a  moment  in  Baker  Street. 
He  looked  up  at  Bickenhall  Mansions,  as  if  for 
a  moment  a  voluptuary;  he  sought  to  maintain  an- 
ticipation and  defer  delight.  He  had  not  seen  Janet 
for  eleven  weeks,  during  which,  with  a  married  sister 
and  her  family,  she  had  been  touring  in  the  south  of 
France  and  in  Italy.  She  had  written  to  him  several 
times  with  cruel  and  charming  detachment.  She  en- 
joyed Florence,  and  terrified  him  by  suggesting  that 
palazzos  were  very  cheap  and  that  she  was  thinking 
of  buying  one.  Fortunately  she  added:  "It's  only 
a  cottage,  really.  A  cottage  on  the  Arno!  How 
romantic!  But  then  a  woman  of  my  years  makes  a 
fool  of  herself  when  she's  romantic.  One  can  be 
romantic  at  twenty-one  and  one  can  be  romantic  at 
forty-one,  but  when  one's  twenty-seven  one's  got  to 
think  whether  Florentine  sanitation  is  good,  whether 
Italian  milk  suits  a  British  baby,  and  whether  one 
can  bear  the  two  days  that  separate  one  from  the 
Daily  Gazette.  Of  course  there  is  the  Continental 
Daily  Mail.  That  is  a  point."  He  laughed.  It 
was  so  warming  to  have  her  chaff  him,  and  flaunt 
the  detested  rival.  He  looked  at  Baker  Street 
Station,  that  in  the  light  June  air  looked  like  a 

300 


Tg  A  PARAGRAPH  « 

Turkish  bath  conceived  by  Scheherazade;  blue  dis- 
tance hung  beyond  the  green  cardboard  trees  of 
Regent's  Park,  and  the  shadows  fell  blurred  at  the 
edges  as  if  drawn  in  charcoal.  For  a  moment 
Bulmer  felt  beauty;  then  he  went  briskly  to  the 
lift. 

It  was  delicious  in  the  flat;  it  was  as  he  had  ex- 
pected. She  rose  with  a  certain  warmth  to  greet 
him,  and  for  a  moment  he  held  her  hand  in  both  of 
his,  looking  humbly  into  the  open,  gray-green  eyes 
that  were  so  calm,  at  the  red  mouth  that  smiled, 
half  glad,  half  apprehensive.  An  impulse  passed 
through  him  to  take  her  in  his  arms.  Then  he  was 
afraid.  And  the  impulse  reasserted  itself,  but  as  it 
did  so  she  freed  herself.  It  was  too  late.  They  sat 
down,  for  a  moment  silent.  He  had  feared  that 
minute  because  of  something  that  had  happened  the 
day  before,  and  he  was  glad  when  she  began  to  talk 
of  her  journey,  of  places  seen,  of  her  sister;  he  grew 
more  and  more  assured  that  she  did  not  know.  She 
might  never  know.     Then  she  said: 

"It's  been  very  nice,  but  oh,  you  can't  tell  how 
nice  it  is  to  be  back  in  London.  The  taxis  and  the 
pretty  girls — there  aren't  any  in  Italy,  or  they've 
got  no  complexions — and  the  dear  old  Ebury  Bridge 
omnibus,  and  the  nice  smoky  smell.  I  am  enjoying 
myself.  I'd  like  to  lunch  at  the  Carlton,  Claridge's, 
and  the  Ritz  the  same  day.  And  I've  sent  out  for 
all  the  newspapers,  all  yours,  and  all  everybody's. 
And  I'm  going  to  read  them  all." 

Bulmer  laughed.  It  was  adorable  to  find  such  a 
woman  fit  to  be  such  a  child.  But  he  did  not  like 
her  remark,  and  said: 

301 


*8?  CALIBAN  °£ 


a 


Oh,  I  shouldn't  read  them  all.  They  aren't 
worth  it.     You'll  have  something  else  to  do." 

"All,"  said  Janet,  firmly.  "I  want  to  hear  what 
everybody's  doing;  who's  been  married  and  who's 
been  buried,  and  all  the  theater  plans,  and  all  the 
frocks,  and  all  the  scandals." 

"Never  mind  that,"  said  Bulmer,  rather  roughly, 
and  his  hands  moved  as  if  he  would  seize  her,  pro- 
tect her. 

"Why?"  she  asked,  suddenly  serious. 

"Stay  as  you  are.  Don't  be  like  other  people, 
soiled  by  everything.  Just  be  .  .  .  well,  you  laughed 
at  me  when  I  said  that,  like  warm  snow." 

She  looked  at  him  intently  for  a  moment,  then  said : 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you're  bothering  about  the 
things  they  print  in  the  papers?  You  ought  to  know 
better,  since  you  print  them  yourself." 

"I  .  .  .  you  ..."  said  Bulmer,  wondering  whether 
she  knew. 

"What  do  you  think  I  care?"  asked  Janet.  "Per- 
haps you  thought  I  didn't  know." 

"No,  I  didn't.     I  hoped  you  didn't." 

She  smiled.  "Oh,  innocent!  Do  you  really  think 
that  the  world  is  going  to  let  people  like  you  and  me 
alone.  We're  much  too  interesting.  Why,  I  found 
two  copies  of  the  paper  as  soon  as  I  arrived,  sent, 
no  doubt,  by  my  dearest  friends,  with  the  passage 
marked  in  blue." 

"Don't,"  said  Bulmer,  weakly.  The  few  words 
— he  knew  them  by  heart — now  set  themselves  up  in 
his  brain.  They  had  appeared  in  a  penny  weekly, 
among  other  paragraphs,  under  the  general  heading, 
"All  About  'Em."    It  read: 

302 


*8  A  PARAGRAPH  °g 

Many  are  the  duties  and  diversions  of  great  newspaper  pro- 
prietors. Such  men  need  rest  when  they  carry  every  day  the 
cares  of  state.  Some  find  it  in  the  flowing  bowl,  others  at  Ascot, 
yet  others  worship  her  whom  some  call  Venus.  And  one,  a 
little  bird  tells  me,  often  deserts  his  mansion  in  Mayfair  for  a 
district  not  a  thousand  miles  from  Baker  Street;  one,  at  least,  of 
our  great  newspaper  owners  must  plead  "guilty"  to  the  charge 
of  dawdling  in  the  Garden  of  Eden  under  the  tree  of  knowledge. 
What  is  that  tree?  an  oak?  or  can  it  a  willow  bef 

Then  came  a  line  of  stars,  under  which  was  printed: 

We  hear  that  Lady  Buhner  has  taken  for  the  summer  a  house 
in  Fifeshire,  and  that,  owing  to  pressure  of  business,  the  well- 
known  owner  of  the  Daily  Gazette  will  not  accompany  her. 

"Damn  'em,"  he  said,  suddenly.  "I'll  kill  him. 
Kill  him  in  the  right  way.  I'll  buy  up  that  paper 
within  a  week.  I'll  drive  the  man  out  and  dog  him 
for  the  rest  of  his  life.  If  a  paper  employs  him  I'll 
buy  it  up  under  his  feet  and  kick  him  out.  If  the 
paper  won't  sell,  I'll  ruin  it.  And  if  the  man  gets 
out  of  Fleet  Street  I'll  tempt  him  until  he  hangs  for 
it.     I'U  find  a  way." 

"Please,"  said  Janet,  "please  don't  upset  your- 
self like  that.  Yes,  I  know  it's  horrid.  The  world 
can't  bear  people  to  be  friends." 

"That  this  should  happen  to  you!"  said  Bulmer. 
"It's  almost  incredible.     You!" 

She  smiled.  "Why  shouldn't  it  happen  to  me? 
I'm  not  a  goddess." 

"Yes,  you  are." 

She  flushed.  "Well,  you're  my  only  worshiper. 
But,  even  so,  it  doesn't  matter.  People  say  things; 
they're  always  saying  things." 

303 


«  CALIBAN  IB 

"But  it  does  matter,"  said  Bulmer,  intensely. 
"It  does  matter  that  you  should  be  dragged  in  the 
mud.  And  it's  all  my  fault.  I  suppose  that  if  a 
married  man  is  often  seen  alone  with  a  woman  like 
you,  young,  beautiful,  charming,  I  suppose  .  .  . 
perhaps  I'd  better  let  you  alone."  She  did  not 
reply.  What  could  she  say?  She  could  not  tell  him 
to  let  her  alone;  she  was  too  uncertain  of  herself  to 
know  whether  she  wanted  him  to  or  not.  "But  I 
can't,"  he  added.  "You're  the  only  thing  that's 
lovely  to  me  in  a  beastly  world.  And  I  can't  even 
sue  them  for  libel.     Even  if  I  won,  you'd  lose." 

She  bent  so  close  to  him  that  he  saw  the  various 
colors  in  her  eyes.     She  whispered: 

"I'm  so  sorry.  I  don't  mean  it  to  make  any  dif- 
ference to  us,  but  I'm  so  sorry  it  should  matter  so 
much  to  you  when  it  matters  so  little  to  me." 

"Doesn't  it  matter  to  you?"  asked  Bulmer,  stung. 

"Not  at  all.  I  am  what  I  am.  If  people  think 
otherwise  they  think  wrong.  People  used  to  say 
the  sun  moved  round  the  earth.  It  didn't.  They 
were  wrong,  that's  all." 

"But,"  cried  Bulmer,  a  little  shocked,  "don't  you 
care  for  public  opinion?" 

"No,  why  should  I?  I  don't  care  what  people  say 
about  me.  Indeed,  I'm  not  sure  that  I  don't  wish 
they'd  say  worse;  it  would  give  me  a  chance  of 
finding  out  my  true  friends." 

"But  suppose  they  said  that  you  and  I  .  .  .  well, 
some  people  might  think  so." 

She  met  him  with  a  brave,  straight  look,  though 
color  ran  down  her  shoulders  to  the  edge  of  her  blouse. 

"I  shouldn't  care.     A  thing  is  or  a  thing  isn't. 

304 


IB  A  PARAGRAPH  °£ 

Besides,  why  should  I  be  ashamed,  whatever  I  chose 
to  do?"  She  saw  his  startled  look,  and  added:  "I 
have  no  morals,  Lord  Bulmer,  in  the  sense  of  the 
paragraph.  I  do  what  I  think  right.  I  abstain  from 
what  I  think  wrong,  and  I  think  that  on  balance  I 
keep  rather  more  commandments  than  the  average 
Christian. " 

"But  do  you  mean . . ."  asked  Bulmer,  still  puzzled, 
"that  if  you  .  .  .  that  if  a  man  you  couldn't  marry 
.  .  .  and  you  cared  for  him  . . .?" 

"Yes,  of  course/'  said  Janet.  "Why  not?  If  I 
cared  for  him." 

Bulmer  was  very  shocked,  but  he  clung  to  his 
established  ideas,  and  rescued  himself  by  saying: 

"Oh,  of  course,  love  sanctifies." 

"It  does  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Janet,  an  ill- 
tempered  tone  creeping  into  her  voice.  "Love 
doesn't  sanctify  in  the  way  that  lysol  disinfects. 
Love  happens.  There's  nothing  holy  about  it,  or 
unholy."  Her  irritation  passed  away,  and  her  voice 
grew  soft  as  she  cast  down  her  eyelashes  and  mur- 
mured: "The  only  thing  in  the  world.  One  knows 
that  when  one  hasn't  been  happy."  As  if  speaking 
to  herself,  she  added,  in  one  of  her  rare  moods  of 
self -revelation:  "Look  at  me,  married  at  nineteen, 
a  mother  at  twenty-three,  and  a  widow  at  twenty- 
four.  It  isn't  long.  He  wasn't  a  bad  sort.  I  thought 
I  cared  for  him.  I  did,  in  a  way  .  .  .  until  I  foimd 
out  why  he  couldn't  speak  plainly  in  the  evening. 
He  hit  Jack  when  he  was  six  months  old." 

"Oh!"  gasped  Bulmer. 

As  if  she  had  not  heard  him,  she  went  on.  "I 
oughtn't  to  have  interfered,  I  suppose.     Perhaps  it 

305 


*8  CALIBAN  *8 

was  my  fault  he  hit  me,  too."  In  sudden  rapture, 
she  added:  "But  that's  not  the  end.  It  can't  be 
the  end.  There  must  be  something  else.  I  know 
love's  the  only  thing,  though  I  haven't  had  it  yet." 

Unbearably  unhappy,  and  infinitely  drawn,  Bul- 
mer  flung  himself  upon  his  knees  before  her  and 
seized  her  hands. 

" Darling!"  he  cried,  "don't  torture  me  like  this. 
Don't  you  know  what  you  are  to  me?  I've  never 
loved  anybody,  not  really.  I'm  almost  frightened 
to  touch  you,  I  love  you  so." 

She  looked  down  at  him,  her  mouth  a  little  twisted 
with  uncertainty. 

"Do  you  really  care?"  he  whispered.  "Oh,  yes, 
I  know  it's  all  very  difficult.  I'm  married  and  not 
likely  to  be  free — and  all  the  world  and  its  damned 
tongue." 

"It's  not  that,"  she  said,  at  last.  "I  meant  what 
I  said,  but  I  don't  know." 

"Oh,  don't  send  me  away,"  cried  Bulmer,  sud- 
denly. "Of  course  you  don't  know.  What  am  I, 
after  all?  Forty-four!"  He  tried  to  read  her  then, 
but  could  not;  he  was  thinking  only  of  his  age  and 
his  condition.     So  he  was  surprised  when  she  said: 

"You're  a  great  man;  I  know  that.  Only  we're 
so  different,  you  and  I,  in  the  way  we  look  at 
things." 

"I'll  look  at  them  as  you  do,"  said  Bulmer.  "Only 
tell  me." 

"I  don't  know  how,"  she  replied,  freeing  her 
hands.  "You  smash  things.  You  don't  care  how 
you  do  it.  But,"  she  added,  hastily,  "that  doesn't 
matter.     Only  don't  press  me." 

306 


^  A  PARAGRAPH  *8 

Pie  hesitated  for  a  moment;  he  was  offended  by 
this  balking  of  his  immediate  desire.  He  was  not 
used  to  that.  But  he  felt  gratitude  and  relief;  after 
all,  she  was  not  sending  him  away.  He  bent  down 
and  covered  her  hands  with  kisses.  She  did  not 
resist,  and,  as  his  lips  traveled  over  her  wrists  and 
into  the  warm,  scented  palms  of  her  hands,  that 
were  soft  and  yielding  as  rose  flesh,  she  looked  down 
upon  his  fair  head,  spattered  with  gray,  and  felt 
together,  uncertain,  repelled,  and  immensely  glad. 
She  released  one  hand,  and  for  a  moment  let  it  rest 
on  his  cheek  as  she  said,  "Come  and  see  me  to- 
morrow at  this  time." 

Bulmer  got  up.  His  eyes  were  shining,  and  a 
flush  stood  in  his  cheeks. 

"Janet,"  he  said,  "I  love  you.  You  make  me 
feel  like  a  giant.  I  must  do  something.  I  must  go 
out  and  conquer  something.' ' 

She  looked  at  him,  smiling,  amused  and  charmed 
by  his  youthfulness,  by  the  material  impulse  into 
which  his  emotion  was  immediately  transmuted. 

The  mood  of  conquest  stayed  upon  him,  though 

the  weeks  passed  and  nothing  definite  altered  the 

relation.    They  knew  a  greater  familiarity,  a  greater 

intimacy,  and  that  was  all.     So  he  turned  to  the 

excitement  of  a  plan  which  had  been  in  his  mind  for 

some  months.     He  had  been  exasperated  by  the 

purchase  of  the   Times   by  Lord   Northcliffe;    he 

should  have  thought  of  that.     He  had  considered 

making  an  offer  for  the  Morning  Post,  then  realized 

that  to  convert  the  Morning  Post  to  Liberalism 

would  blow  off  the  roof  of  its  office  in  Aldwych.    But 

there  was  another  paper  in  those  days  called  The 

307 


*g  CALIBAN  *8 

Da?/,  formed  only  four  years  after  the  Times.  It  had 
a  great  tradition,  for  its  editor,  Charles  Goring,  had 
dined  out  as  much  as  Delane.  And  The  Day  had 
maintained  itself  from  Whiggery,  through  Whiggery, 
into  Whiggery.  In  1914  it  advocated  destructive 
Conservatism.  It  had,  in  a  way,  a  great  position. 
It  had  had  a  greater  one  in  the  'sixties,  but  it  had 
not  gone  up  with  its  rivals.  As  its  circulation  was 
only  thirty  thousand,  and  yielded  small  profit,  it 
spoke  for  the  elite.  It  was  quoted  in  every  foreign 
newspaper.  Several  times  its  proprietors  had  re- 
fused knighthoods  and  peerages. 

During  the  century  The  Day  had  stayed  in  the 
hands  of  the  Mortimer  family.  They  were  quiet 
people,  now  buried  in  Sussex,  and  ignorant  of  public 
affairs.  They  kept  their  editors  until  they  died. 
When  the  editors  died  the  assistant  editors  were 
promoted;  it  was  left  to  them  to  find  subordinates 
who  could  succeed  them.  Thanks  to  these  methods 
the  Mortimers  had  grown  poor;  The  Day  did  not 
make  an  annual  loss,  but  contributed  only  a  few 
hundreds  a  year  to  their  income.  They  kept  up 
the  paper  as  a  tradition.  So  Edward  Mortimer  (the 
fifth  Mortimer,  and  the  third  Edward)  was  surprised 
when,  one  afternoon,  a  Rolls-Royce  chuffed  its  way 
up  the  drive  and  a  rather  short,  middle-aged  man 
in  one  movement  leaped  out  of  the  car,  slammed 
the  door,  and  waved  the  chauffeur  away.  Edward 
Mortimer  had  heard  of  Lord  Bulmer,  but  all  he  knew 
was  that  he  controlled  a  certain  number  of  news- 
papers— he  did  not  quite  know  which,  for  the  only 
publications  he  ever  saw  were  The  Day,  the  Spectator, 
and,  in  a  faintly  jealous  spirit,  the  Times.    Bulmer 

308 


*$  A  PARAGRAPH  'g 

glanced  at  the  drawing-room,  at  the  rich  damask 
curtains,  very  shabby,  at  the  row  of  silver  cups 
won  during  the  century  by  various  Mortimers,  at 
the  framed  picture  of  a  Mortimer  in  a  pith  hel- 
met sitting  on  an  elephant,  at  the  horrible  collec- 
tion of  Indian  brasses.  He  thought,  "Not  very 
flush,"  and  said,  "Mr.  Mortimer,  I  want  to  buy 
The  Day.'1 

Edward  Mortimer's  mouth  fell  open.  He  felt 
exactly  as  the  Dean  might  have  felt  if  Buhner  had 
asked  him  how  much  he  wanted  for  St.  Paul's.  "I 
don't  understand,"  said  Mortimer. 

"My  name's  Lord  Buhner.  I  own  newspapers, 
but  you  know  all  about  that.  And  I  want  to  buy 
The  Day  from  you.  I  want  to  own  it  and  I'm  ready 
to  pay  a  good  price  for  it." 

Quite  impossible,"  said  Mortimer. 
Oh,  no,  nothing's  impossible.  Mr.  Mortimer, 
you're  a  business  man.  I'll  make  you  a  business 
proposition.  The  Day  doesn't  pay;  that's  because 
in  the  way  it's  being  run  it's  more  like  The  Yesterday. 
And  it  doesn't  pay." 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Mr.  Mortimer,  rising,  "that 
all  this  is  purely  a  private  matter." 

"Quite,"  said  Bulmer,  remaining  seated.  "To 
put  the  matter  clearly,  I've  made  a  few  inquiries. 
I  understand  that  The  Day  has  brought  you  in  during 
the  last  three  years  an  average  of  six  hundred  and 
eighty-six  pounds  a  year.  This  half-year,  I'm  told, 
will  be  a  little  better." 

"May  I  ask,  Lord  Bulmer,  how  you  know  all  this? 
Have  you  spies  in  my  office?" 

"Yes,  lots.    I  have  some  in  every  office,  and  my 

309 


H  CALIBAN  TB 

rivals  have  some  in  mine.  Business,  Mr.  Mortimer, 
of  course  you  understand." 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Mr.  Mortimer. 

"No,  but  perhaps  you'll  understand  me  when  I 
say  that  if  you  will  sell  me  The  Day,  under  certain 
conditions  of  secrecy,  I  will  pay  you  a  hundred 
thousand  pounds  for  it." 

Mr.  Mortimer  sat  down  suddenly.  He  had  not 
expected  that.  His  brain,  unaccustomed  to  figures, 
wondered  whether  a  hundred  thousand  pounds  at 
5  per  cent,  brought  in  five  thousand  a  year  or  fifty 
thousand  a  year.  Anyhow  it  was  something  terrific. 
He  needed  a  new  gun  badly;  Holland  &  Holland 
wanted  forty  pounds  for  it.  Bulmer  was  still  talk- 
ing, and  though  Mortimer  after  a  while  tried  to  gain 
a  little  time — for  reasons  which  he  could  not  explain 
— he  gave  in.  All  through  the  day  he  was  worried 
with  this  idea  that  he  ought  to  have  had  time  to 
think  about  it;  an  instinct  told  him  that  he  ought 
to  have  time.  As  if  a  century  had  not  been  enough 
for  his  family. 

Mr.  Mortimer,  still  old-maidish  and  protesting, 
was  taken  up  to  town  in  the  Rolls-Royce,  introduced 
to  a  solicitor  whom  he  didn't  know,  and  went  out, 
his  pocket  buttoned  over  a  check  for  a  hundred 
thousand  pounds.  He  accompanied  Bulmer,  who, 
not  wanting  the  news  to  get  out,  kept  him  company 
until  the  evening.  During  dinner  he  horrified  him 
with  a  description  of  what  he  was  going  to  do  to 
The  Day.  At  half  past  nine  the  wretched  Mr.  Mor- 
timer introduced  to  the  editor  of  The  Day  his  new 
proprietor,  who  exhibited  the  deed,  and  informed 
him  that  he  would  retain  his  services  provided  not 

310 


H  A  PARAGRAPH  *g 

a  whisper  of  the  change  of  proprietorship  got  into 
the  other  papers. 

"Now,"  said  Buhner,  "I  want  you  to  put  this  in." 
He  produced  from  a  suitcase  a  parcel  about  two  feet 
square.  "There's  plenty  of  time  to  cut  out  the 
leader  page  and  shift  it  somewhere  else." 

"Where?"  asked  the  editor. 

"Anywhere.  To-morrow  morning  nobody  will 
bother  about  the  leaders  in  The  Day.  People'll  only 
look  at  this.  Nobody  knows  about  it.  I've  been  care- 
ful. It's  one  of  our  own  blocks;  I  had  it  enlarged 
by  the  Bristol  Gazette.  The  final  photo-block  was 
made  by  a  small  printer  who  thinks  I'm  a  lunatic, 
and  doesn't  know  me."  The  three  men  stared  for 
a  minute  at  the  block.  It  represented  Lord  Buhner, 
and  was  twenty-one  inches  by  sixteen. 

"Just  put  that  in,"  said  Buhner,  "on  the  leader 
page.  It'll  just  fill  it.  Don't  say  anything  in  the 
paper  about  the  change  of  proprietorship.  Just 
print  under  my  portrait,  'The  Right  Honorable 
Lord  Buhner.'    The  public'U  do  the  rest." 

When,  next  day,  Buhner  went  to  Janet  and  showed 
her  the  issue  of  The  Day,  which  she  had  not  seen,  she 
looked  at  him  with  large,  doubtful  eyes.  "It's  very 
dramatic,"  she  said,  "but  ..." 

"But  what?" 

"I  don't  know."  He  caught  her  hand,  but  she 
wriggled  her  ringers  free.  "I  don't  know.  Such  a 
big  picture.    It's  you.    It's  like  you,  of  course." 

"The  picture?     Of  course  it's  like  me." 

"No,  not  that.  Oh,  I  can't  explain.  It's  your 
way  of  doing  things." 

He   understood   her   vaguely   and    said:     "You 

21  311 


*g  CALIBAN ]8? 

mean  it's  rather  blatant?  Well,  of  course;  it's  a 
blatant  world,  you  know.  If  Mohammed  were  to 
come  back  to  earth  and  ride  from  Medina  to  Mecca, 
he  wouldn't  get  his  full  effect  unless  the  Daily 
Gazette  had  him  timed  and  filmed  whenever  he 
changed  donkeys.' ' 

"I  suppose  you're  right,"  she  said,  wearily.  Then 
she  smiled  at  him,  and  when  again  he  bent  to  kiss 
her  hand  he  murmured: 

"I  wanted  to  do  something  big  for  you."  She 
felt  pitiful  tolerance  and  tenderness  mingled  with  a 
little  fear.  He  was  like  a  triumphant  child  that 
stands  upon  a  sand  castle  surrounded  already  by 
the  incoming  tide. 


Chapter  IV 
War 

IT  was  typical  of  Bulmer  that  he  did  not  realize 
the  war  until  it  happened.  Following  on  the  as- 
sassination of  the  Archduke  he  had  noticed  some 
rumors  of  unrest  in  the  Balkans.  But  then,  there 
always  was  unrest  in  the  Balkans.  The  Daily  Gazette 
had  a  correspondent  in  Belgrade,  but  his  matter  was 
seldom  interesting.  No  good  had  come  out  of  Serbia, 
from  Buhner's  point  of  view,  since  the  murder  of 
the  King  and  Queen,  and  the  moral  scandals  con- 
nected with  it.  It  took  him  a  fortnight  to  grow 
disturbed,  though  the  shortage  of  gold  impressed 
him.  But  it  was  not  until  the  20th  of  July, 
when  it  grew  obvious  that  Austria  wanted  war,  that 
he  realized  war  could  break  out.  And  even  then, 
saturated  with  Liberal  tradition,  he  looked  upon  a 
continental  war  as  nothing  more  than  an  imperialist 
scare.  Then  he  was  seized  with  panic,  and  printed 
an  article  headed  "War,  and  Those  Who  Want  It." 
In  reality  he  was  hesitating.  He  objected  to  war, 
not  on  principle,  but  because  it  did  not  suit  him. 
This  war  was  playing  up  to  the  Morning  Post  & 
Co.  It  was  poaching  on  the  peace  preserves  of  the 
Daily  Gazette.  But  events  rushed  his  position, 
as  the  mobilizations  piled  up  he  realized  that  Eng- 
land might  be  in  for  it. 

313 


*8  CALIBAN  ^ 

He  was  very  thoughtful  in  these  days,  and  Janet 
annoyed  him  because  she  was  absolutely  against 
war. 

"What's  the  good  of  your  being  against  war?" 
he  asked,  acidly,  "if  it's  going  to  happen?  If  a 
thing  happens  one  might  as  well  back  it  up  as  not." 

They  parted  coldly  that  day.  Janet  knew  him 
well  enough  to  expect  from  him  no  stand  on  prin- 
ciple, and  though  he  attracted  her  she  would  have 
preferred  him  to  attract  her  in  another  way.  Bul- 
mer  vaguely  realized  this,  for  he  did  not  come  to 
see  her  again  until  after  the  declaration  of  war.  An 
instinct  bade  him  hide  from  her  that  his  hesitation 
had  continued  until  the  last  hour,  and  that,  on  the 
Sunday  afternoon,  not  knowing  for  certain  what  the 
government  was  going  to  do,  he  had  ready  two 
leaders.  One  was  headed,  "Our  Word  Is  Not  a 
Scrap  of  Paper,"  and  demanded  war;  the  other  was 
headed,  "Don't  Be  Fooled,"  and  was  filled  with 
strong  pacifist  sentiment  and  references  to  Anglo- 
German  historic  ties.  He  was  informed  of  the  ulti- 
matum only  just  in  time,  while  he  was  at  dinner. 
If  the  information  had  not  come  through  it  is  prob- 
able that,  following  the  party  tradition,  he  would 
have  come  out  pacifist.  But,  fortunately,  he  was 
warned,  and  so  next  morning  his  political  bread 
and  butter  fell  right  side  up.  It  was  agony,  in  a 
way,  for  during  the  whole  week  he  had  been  through 
his  ordinary  route  in  continual  touch  with  the  Cabi- 
net. But  he  oscillated,  for  one  moment  sided  with 
Lord  Morley  and  Mr.  John  Burns;  then  swung  over 
to  the  virulence  of  Mr.  Churchill.     Bulmer's  true 

agony  lay  in  the  fact  that  he  could  not  follow  the 

314 


*8?  WAR  « 

middle  party  of  Mr.  Asquith  and  Sir  Edward  Grey; 

he  could  side  only   with  excess.     But,  when  war 

broke  out,  a  sudden  ease  came  over  him.     He  was 

enormously  excited.    Things  were  going  to  happen. 

One  didn't  know  what  things,  but  never  mind.     He 

did  not  sleep  through  the  Monday  night;   he  spent 

febrile  hours  at  the  Daily  Gazette  office  or  rushed 

in  his  car  about  the  wakeful  town;   the  processions 

and  the  cheers  made  him  drunk.     Through  the  next 

day,  too,  he  was  in  the  grasp  of  drama,  filled  with  a 

sense  of  incredible  forces  unleashed  and  launched  at 

one  another;  he  was  as  a  valkyr  in  a  storm,  mingling 

his  laughter  with  the  thunder-peals,  and  dazzling 

his  eyes  with  Hghtning.     He  rushed  into  Janet's 

flat,  and  his  eyes  were  so  feverish,  there  was  such 

rapture  in  his  parted  lips,  that  for  a  moment  he 

terrified  Janet  and  delighted  her.     He  seemed  big. 

"Isn't  it  splendid!"  he  cried,  hoarsely.     "Isn't  it 

wonderful!"  and  for  the  first  time  seized  her  in  his 

arms.     He  crushed  her  to  him,  and,  bending  back 

her  head,  kissed  the  cool  lips.     He  was  wild,  he  was 

conquering,  and  for  some  seconds  so  distraught  was 

she,  too,  so  broken  by  what  she  thought  catastrophe, 

that  she  did  not  resist  him.     Such  weariness  fell  on 

her  that  indeed  she  came  closer  to  him,  suffering 

caresses  she  did  not  expect.     It  was  as  if  she  felt 

alone  in  a  hostile  world  and  was  glad  to  be  ground 

and  beaten  through  her  own  body  as  well  as  through 

her  thoughts.     Still  holding  her,  he  raised  his  head 

and  looked  into  the  emptiness,  talked  for  a  long 

time.     His   brain  was  fumous;    his  speech  was  a 

lyrical  song  of  slaughter.    In  mangled  sentences  he 

expressed  ideas  new-born,  aspiration   to  honor  for 

315 


TB  CALIBAN  °g 

his  country  that  was  actually  an  aspiration  to  deeds. 
He  grew  breathless,  his  mouth  was  dry.  He  was  in 
the  grasp  of  an  epic  poem.  But,  at  last,  holding 
her  so,  limp  and  abandoned,  she  grew  more  personal 
to  him.  At  first  it  had  been  as  if  he  grasped  heroic 
mankind,  but  now  he  was  conscious  of  her  softness, 
of  her  surrender  to  him.  He  felt  still  upon  his  lips 
the  sweetness  of  her  mouth,  and  a  suavity  arose  from 
the  piled  brown  hair,  the  soft  cheeks.  A  languid 
grace  that  fired  him  came  from  the  long,  warm  body, 
held  close  in  his  arms. 

"Oh,  it's  good  to  have  you  on  such  a  day.  It 
makes  one  triumphant.  England's  triumphant. 
I'm  triumphant."  Holding  her  close,  he  pressed 
upon  her  lips  kisses  that  frightened  her,  so  dominant 
were  they.  But  he  held  her  so  tight  that  she  could 
only  struggle.  His  voice  sank  to  whispers  as  he  pro- 
tested his  love  for  her. 

"  Don't,"  she  said,  weakly.  He  was  a  war  god. 
He  drew  her  and  he  sickened  her. 

But,  as  if  he  had  not  heard,  he  held  her,  hoarsely 
murmuring,  in  this  universal  dissolution,  warring 
against  her  impulse  to  refuse  herself. 

"No,  no,"  she  cried,  this  time  with  a  note  of  terror 
in  her  voice.  And  as  suddenly  he  grew  rough  and 
silent,  as  she  grew  conscious  that  in  a  moment  his 
growing  excitement  would  sweep  away  all  the  re- 
spect that  had  held  him  back,  that  the  times  were 
times  of  tragedy,  when  naught  save  respect  is  evil, 
her  instinctive  fastidiousness  asserted  itself.  So,  in 
silence,  muscle  against  muscle,  teeth  clenched,  they 
fought  each  other,  hard-breathing,  giving  forth  the 

muffled  cries  of  effort. 

316 


yS  WAR  *8 

"Let  me  go,"  said  Janet,  a  snarl  in  her  voice. 
She  clutched  at  her  hair  that  was  loosening,  and 
pressed  her  other  hand  against  his  chin,  bending 
him  back  as  an  arc. 

"  Janet  .  .  .  you're  mine."  Still  she  struggled, 
throwing  all  her  weight  against  his  throat.  Sud- 
denly they  fell  apart,  in  full  reaction.  In  their 
weakness  shame  crept  on  both.  They  looked  at 
each  other  for  a  moment,  still  breathing  fast.  Tremu- 
lously he  watched  her  pick  up  her  combs  from  the 
sofa,  and  he  observed  the  flush  of  anger  on  her 
cheeks. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  at  last. 

She  had  her  back  to  him  then,  and,  as  she  turned, 
there  was  in  her  face  such  contempt,  such  anger,  as 
if  she  hated  him  for  having  thought  that  war  could 
gain  for  him  a  victory  that  love  had  not  yet  granted. 
But  when  she  said,  "  Go  away,"  he  turned,  and  went 
ivery  fast,  as  if  he  feared  she  might  do  him  an  injury. 

Bulmer  did  not  long  have  time  to  dwell  upon  this 

sudden  and  awful  emptiness.    His  separation  from 

Janet — for  she  went  to  the  country  the  next  day, 

and  did  not  answer  his  letters — told  him  that  he  had 

not  been  mistaken,  that  at  last  he  had  found  love, 

only  to  lose  it.     For  some  days  the  agony  of  his  loss 

would  not  leave  him.     He  made  school-boy  plans. 

He  would  discover  her,  go  to  her,  wait  at  her  door 

till  she  came  out,  abase  himself  in  the  dust,  and  so 

stay  until  in  forgiveness  she  raised  him  up.     But 

she  had  left  no  address,  as  if  she  had  determined  for 

a  time  to  cut  out  of  her  life  the  period  he  had  filled. 

One  day  he  thought,  "  Suppose  she  never  came  back 

again?"    He  tried  to  believe  that  this  was  a  ridicu- 

317 


J!  CALIBAN  *« 

lous  idea,  but,  still,  who  could  say?  He  tried  to  imag- 
ine life  without  the  hope  of  her.  Then  he  told  him- 
self, quietly,  "If  she  doesn't  come  back,  I'll  shoot 
myself."  It  was  not  despair  drove  him,  but  rather 
the  sense  of  emptiness.  He  would  take  his  life,  not 
through  grief,  but  through  lack  of  incentive  to  live. 

But  the  times  were  not  propitious  to  unrequited 
love.  Notably,  he  had  to  follow  a  policy  so  difficult 
that  it  took  all  his  energy.  He  had  to  support  the 
war  in  the  government  sense;  to  help  to  win  it,  but 
not  to  win  it  too  much.  He  had  to  range  himself 
on  the  side  of  the  combat,  and  yet  satisfy  his  Liberal 
and  Nonconformist  public,  who  came  into  the  war 
as  sulky  school-boys  to  school.  Also,  he  had  to  be 
careful  not  to  agree  with  Northcliffe,  and  as  he  act- 
ually did  agree,  it  became  a  whole-time  occupation 
to  find  means  to  quarrel  with  the  Daily  Mail. 

"We've  got  to  pitch  into  them,"  he  said  to  Alford, 
desperately.  "That's  what  we're  for.  If  we  stop 
hitting  people  the  public'll  think  we've  lost  our 
guts." 

It  was  very  difficult,  for  the  Daily  Gazette  mind 
demanded  that  he  should  immediately  press  for  a 
strict  blockade,  the  expansion  of  the  air  service,  and 
conscription.  He  managed  to  attack  the  Daily  Mail 
on  the  subject  of  Lord  Kitchener.  Unfortunately 
he  had  no  other  candidate,  in  spite  of  his  fondness 
for  Marshal  French.  But  French  was  hardly  a  popu- 
lar figure,  and  so,  grudgingly,  Bulmer  had  to  follow 
the  Daily  Mail.  And  he  was  in  acute  difficulties  with 
the  government ;  his  rapid  evolution  from  Liberalism 
into  a  sort  of  warlike  Radicalism  was  swifter  than 
theirs.    He  found  them  obstructive;   they  wouldn't 

318 


*g WAR ^ 

tell  him  things.  When  Bujmer  was  refused  informa- 
tion he  invariably  became  dangerous.  He  did  not 
necessarily  want  to  publish,  but  he  wanted  to  know. 
It  was  this,  no  doubt,  caused  him  the  day  after 
Mons  to  print  an  article  signed  by  himself,  sur- 
mounted by  a  head-line  which  went  right  across  the 
page,  and  reading : 

THIS  GOVERNMENT  WANTS  MORE  ZIP 

It  was  just  like  the  old  days,  and  as  the  memory 
of  his  parting  with  Janet  grew  less  painful,  as  he 
was  able  to  hope  more  because  no  greater  evil  fol- 
lowed, a  youthful  joy  invaded  Buhner.  He  began 
to  give  the  government  zip.  He  enjoyed  even  the 
government's  anger.  When  the  ordinary  route 
called  at  Shoe  Lane  and  told  him  that  he  heard  that 
the  government  was  much  annoyed  Buhner  merely 
replied : 

"I  can't  help  it;  they  won't  do  what  I  tell  'em. 
I've  no  use  for  a  disobedient  Prime  Minister.  Look 
at  this  conscription  business!  The  mugs  have  missed 
their  chance.  They  could  have  had  conscription  on 
the  fourth  of  August  for  the  price  of  sticking  a 
proclamation  outside  the  Royal  Exchange.  Now 
the  country's  had  time  to  get  cool,  and,  mark  my 
words,  it'll  be  two  years  before  the  government 
hots  'em  up  again.  The  men'll  have  to  be  whipped 
with  scorpions  before  they  come  in,  and  it'll  be  a 
pretty  lesson  to  those  shufflers  in  Downing  Street 
who  think  they're  going  to  entice  five  million  men 
into  the  army  by  trailing  down  Oxford  Street  a  tin 
of  bully  beef  tied  to  a  string.    But  I'll  show  'em." 

319 


«  CALIBAN  ^ 

He  did.  On  the  26th  of  August  he  was  able  to 
announce  in  all  the  Daily  Gazettes  that  he  had  dis- 
missed every  man  under  thirty-eight.  It  was  a  coup, 
and  Bulmer  did  not  hesitate  to  urge  every  employer 
to  dismiss  all  men  under  this  age.  He  countered 
the  Mons  angels,  and  the  pathos  of  Mr.  Harold 
Begbie  ("I  wasn't  among  the  first  to  go,  but  I  went, 
thank  God,  I  went!"),  by  a  flaming  appeal  to  the 
graybeards  of  England,  and  the  offer  of  a  prize  of 
five  thousand  pounds  to  the  firm  who  dismissed, 
within  one  month,  the  highest  proportion  of  men  of 
military  age. 

He  was  happy,  in  a  way.  He  enjoyed  even  Eng- 
land's agony;  he  enjoyed  the  retreat  from  Mons, 
though  it  filled  him  with  fear,  and  though  he  stood 
for  a  time  on  the  Embankment  on  the  Sunday  after- 
noon, holding  in  frozen  horror  the  afternoon  editions 
of  the  Observer  and  the  Times.  ".Can  the  British 
army  be  saved?"  he  murmured,  and  vaguely  felt 
that  it  would  be  dramatic  if  it  could  not  be  saved. 
Then,  at  the  office,  somebody  told  him  of  the  Retreat 
of  the  Ten  Thousand,  and  he  forgot  the  drama  in 
violent  efforts  to  get  through  on  the  telephone  to  a 
professor  of  Greek,  at  Oxford,  who  was  to  write  for 
next  day  a  parallel  between  Xenophon  leading  his 
soldiers  from  the  Tigris  and  Marshal  French  making 
for  Le  Cateau. 

Also,  he  continued  to  press  for  conscription.  Peo- 
ple told  him  that  there  was  no  equipment,  that  if 
the  men  came  in  they  couldn't  be  housed,  that  there 
were  no  tents  in  France.  Bulmer  did  not  care;  he 
hated  details.  Having  begun  to  cry  out,  he  could 
not  stop.    His  policy  amounted  to  hiccups.     Also, 

320 


*g  WAR  *8 

he  was  at  a  low  point  of  mental  balance.  He  was 
fighting  the  Northcliffe  press  on  the  internment  of 
enemies,  and  was  clamoring  for  deportations.  The 
Liberal  strain  of  humanitarianism  forced  itself  into 
this  policy,  but  Buhner  could  not  breathe  on  these 
high  levels ;  almost  at  once,  he  converted  the  human- 
itarianism into  a  campaign  of  placards  and  cartoons. 
He  began  by  asking  for  fair  treatment  of  enemy 
aliens  who  had  done  no  harm;  he  ended  by  a  mock 
article  by  a  British  convict,  protesting  against  intern- 
ment on  the  plea  that  the  Hun  would  foul  our  loyal 
jails. 

Also,  he  maintained  his  campaign  for  the  exten- 
sion of  the  air  service,  and  put  up  a  five-thousand- 
pound  prize  for  the  firm  who  built  a  fleet  of  one 
hundred  airplanes  in  the  quickest  time.  Day  by 
day  the  entries  were  published,  and,  with  splendid 
audacity,  the  Daily  Gazette  accepted  the  entry  of  a 
German  firm  located  in  Holland.  As  he  put  it  in 
the  leaderette  which  flaunted  this  fact,  "  We'll  take 
our  'planes  from  the  devil  himself;  it's  to  fight  the 
devil  that  we  wrant  them." 

Perhaps  because  his  hardness  reacted  against  the 
sentimentality  with  which  the  Belgian  refugees  were 
received,  he  set  up  a  demand  for  forced  labor  for 
the  Belgians,  and  enjoyed  the  shocked  anger  with 
which  this  proposal  was  received.  Then  he  tried 
to  find  something  else;  he  wanted  to  do  something 
more;  anything,  provided  it  was  more.  It  was 
agony  to  him  to  be  in  England  then,  in  an  England 
good-tempered  and  sleepy,  failing  to  hate  properly, 
and  practising  "  business  as  usual."  At  forty-four 
he  could  not  take  a  commission,  so  he  precipitated 

321 


*g  CALIBAN T$ 

himself  into  France,  and  drove  the  Rolls-Royce  up 
and  down  behind  the  front,  talking  to  people,  who 
at  once  realized  that  he  must  be  a  lunatic  or  an  Eng- 
lishman. Everything  was  slow,  even  the  war;  the 
only  satisfaction  was  the  great  fleet  of  Daily  Gazette 
ambulances  which  he  had  presented  and  himself 
shipped  three  days  after  the  declaration.  He  came 
across  a  countess,  and  for  some  days  conducted  with 
her  an  unsatisfactory  intrigue.  He  packed  her  in 
the  car  among  the  growing  heaps  of  telegrams  and 
reports,  tinned  provisions,  and  thermos  flasks.  Their 
emotional  intercourse  occupied  hectic  moments  be- 
tween telegrams,  telephone  calls,  and  interviews  at 
G.  H.  Q.  with  polite  subalterns  who  thought  her 
pretty  and  him  bad  form.  Then,  one  morning,  the 
French  removed  the  countess  from  the  car,  tried  her 
as  a  spy  in  the  afternoon,  and  shot  her  next  morning. 
Buhner  was  advised  to  go  home,  as  his  passport  was 
no  longer  valid. 

The  affair  made  no  noise,  but  fearing  that  sus- 
picion might  unjustly  fall  upon  him,  Bulmer  was 
driven  into  a  greater  bellicose  fury.  If  they  thought 
him  shaky,  he'd  show  'em.  His  only  fear  was  that 
Janet  would  be  told,  and,  in  his  despair,  he  sent  to 
the  flat  a  long  letter  full  of  self-reproach  and  self- 
abasement.  He  felt  that  be  could  not  explain  how 
much  he  loved  and  needed  her,  and  that  it  was  she 
had  driven  him,  in  his  loneliness,  in  his  agony,  to 
such  a  companionship.  But  this  letter,  too,  re- 
mained unanswered. 


Chapter  V 
The  Furies 

SOMETIMES,  between  preoccupations,  Buhner 
thought,  "Am  I  forgetting  her?"  Five  months 
had  elapsed,  and  no  letters  had  passed  between  him 
and  Janet.  Often  he  would  throw  himself  back  in 
his  chair  and  call  up  her  features.  At  first  this  was 
a  day-dream,  full  of  exquisite  melancholy.  Then 
it  grew  dimmer.  A  little  of  the  vividness  fled  from 
the  cheeks  of  the  wraith,  and  he  was  less  assured  of 
the  shapely  hands  which  he  had  held.  He  found  his 
memory  less  ardent  when  he  remembered  that  he 
had  pressed  her  lips.  Only  the  gray-green  eyes  re- 
mained eloquent,  mocking,  sorrowful. 

He  wondered  what  would  happen  when  they  met 
again;  for  of  course  they  would  meet  again.  She 
would  not  always  stay  in  the  country.  And  when 
she  came  back?  He  played  the  drama  of  their  con- 
versation. She  would  say,  "How  do  you  do,  Lord 
Buhner?"  Then,  after  a  pause,  "What  a  pity  it's 
so  hot" — or  wet.  Or  something  equally  distant. 
But,  though  he  was  thus  ready  for  her,  the  actual 
meeting  came  upon  him  as  a  shock.  It  happened 
at  a  lunch-party,  where  he  arrived  a  little  late.  He 
sat  down  to  find  himself  meeting  her  eyes  across  the 
table.  At  once  he  knew  that  he  was  afraid.  If  only 
he  could  have  spoken  to  her,  heard  her  say  that  it 

323 


*g  CALIBAN  ** 

was  (as  it  happened)  very  cold,  then  he  would  have 
known  what  she  felt  for  him.  But  now  he  must 
face  her  for  an  hour  after  exchanging  pallid  smiles 
of  recognition.  He  watched  her  through  lunch.  She 
seemed  more  lovely  because  she  was  more  strange. 
Cheerful,  too;  and  a  little  thrill  of  hatred  ran 
through  him  because  she  laughed  very  often  when 
her  neighbor,  a  young  naval  officer,  said  things  in 
an  undertone.  He  wondered  whether  they  were 
laughing  at  him.  People  did,  he  knew.  So,  in  the 
drawing-room,  he  was  ready  to  be  curt,  and  as  he 
came  near  did  not  know  whether  he  wanted  to 
bend  his  knee  before  her  or  say  something  rude.  It 
was  she  spoke,  in  the  cool,  high  voice  that  to  him 
was  song. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  said.  Then,  "I  suppose 
the  war's  keeping  you  very  busy?" 

His  heart  softened.  After  all,  she  was  being  per- 
sonal, and,  in  a  rush  of  emotion,  instead  of  answering 
her,  he  said,  in  a  whisper: 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  again.     It's  been  hell,  hell." 

She  did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  but  flushed.  She 
did  not  know  what  to  say,  not  only  because  she  felt 
he  was  telling  the  truth,  but  because  she  was  in- 
credibly sorry  for  him.  It  was  something  else 
troubled  her,  a  sudden  pang.  She  told  herself,  "He 
mustn't  be  hurt."  And,  as  she  noticed  that  he  was 
much  thinner  and  that  his  eyes  burned,  she  asked 
herself,  with  a  little  fear,  whether  indeed  she  loved 
him,  this  gross  child,  this  vulgarian  who  might  have 
genius;  whether  he  was  melting  in  the  crucible  of  his 
love  the  lustrous  pearl  of  her  coldness. 

"Hell!  hell!"  he  said  again.    Janet  clutched  her 

324 


*8  THE  FURIES  ]S 

hands  together.  She  must  answer  him.  But  she 
hated  outward  emotion.  Though,  in  that  moment, 
she  wanted  to  cry  out,  "Well,  then,  come  back  if 
that's  heaven."    Instead,  she  said,  lightly: 

"How  you  exaggerate  .  .  .  Dick."  His  eyes  grew 
so  soft  and  humble  as  she  spoke  his  name  that  she 
added:  "You  can  take  me  home  in  the  car  if  you 
like.  No,  not  yet.  Decency  forbids  that  one  should 
leave  a  lunch-party  before  three." 

In  her  flat,  a  little  later,  they  arrived  at  vague 
understandings.  She  stopped  him  when  he  begged 
her  forgiveness. 

"No,  don't  talk  about  it,  that's  all  over.  Talk 
of  something  else,  as  you  used  to.  What  are  you 
doing  for  the  war?    How  long  is  it  going  to  last?" 

"Four  or  five  years,"  said  Bulmer,  obediently. 
"There's  more  kick  in  the  Hun  than  we  bargained 
for.  He  nearly  licked  us  at  Ypres  the  other  day; 
nearly  went  clean  through.  Oh,  I  know  it  didn't 
get  into  the  papers,  not  even  into  the  Daily  Gazette. 
But  I  know.  I've  seen  a  wire  from  the  commander 
of  the  Eighth  Jaegers  to  the  Great  H.  Q.,  saying: 
'Think  it  unwise  advance  farther.  British  yielding 
so  rapidly  that  trap  certain.  Are  we  to  advance 
against  obvious  curtain  of  machine-guns?'  The 
reply  clearly  told  them  not  to  advance.  The  Ger- 
mans couldn't  believe  we  were  such  damn  fools  as 
to  go  into  this  war  armed  with  fountain-pen  fillers 
and  tin-openers." 

"Is  it  really  as  bad  as  that?"  asked  Janet. 

"Worse,  I  expect.  Even  I  don't  know  every- 
thing. But  it  won't  last,  I  tell  you,  it  won't  last. 
There's  going  to  be  a  change  in  this  country.    We've 

325 


e& 


H  CALIBAN _* 

got  the  wrong  men  at  the  head.  The  honorable 
Johnnie  at  the  F.  O.,  and  Colonel  Blownin  in  the 
War  Office.  They  won't  last.  This  isn't  the  Hun- 
dred Years'  War;  it's  a  business  war,  and  it  needs 
business  men.  It  ought  to  be  run  by  Joseph  Lyons 
and  Selfridge's.    I'll  show  'em." 

"What  will  you  show  'em?"  asked  Janet,  smiling 
at  his  old  intensity. 

"The  Daily  Gazette  is  going  to  put  m  quite  another 
sort  of  men,  people  who  know  something  about 
shipping  into  the  Admiralty  instead  of  people  who 
know  something  about  etchings.  I'm  going  to  put 
in  the  right  people — railway  men,  bankers,  factory- 
managers,  people  with  some  drive,  people  with  some 
zip." 

"Dick,"  she  said,  laughing  fondly  at  this  baby 
building  empires  as  a  house  of  cards,  "you're  in- 
corrigible." 

He  did  not  notice  her  fondness.  He  was  too  in- 
tent. He  went  on:  "The  country's  rotten  to  the 
core.  It's  betrayed  from  the  top.  Immingham! 
I  know  things  about  Lord  Immingham  which  ought 
to  get  him  hanged.  Do  you  know  why  we've  no 
machine-guns,  with  French  howling  and  screaming 
for  machine-guns?  Because  Lord  Immingham  doesn't 
believe  in  'em.  He  says  that  Waterloo  was  won 
with  rifles.  Good  God!  I  wish  he'd  been  at  Water- 
loo, but  I'll  show  'em.  I'm  only  just  waiting  for 
Lord  Immingham." 

"Surely,"  said  Janet,  seriously,  "you  wouldn't 
dare  to  attack  the  man  who  ..." 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  shouldn't  care  if  he'd  won  so 
many  battles  that  he'd  doubled  the  Empire.     For 

326 


•g  THE  FURIES  *» 

I  tell  you  that  the  general  who  doubles  the  Empire 
yesterday  will  halve  it  to-morrow.  And  as  for  dare! 
Don't  you  dare  me!  I'm  glad  he's  a  big  one;  he'll 
make  a  bigger  bang  when  he  comes  down."  She 
did  not  know  what  to  say.  He  frightened  and  ex- 
cited her.  Indeed,  he  would  dare.  She  wondered 
what  would  happen  if  one  day  he  thought  that  the 
King  would  make  a  big  bang  if  he  came  down. 
With  a  man  like  that  you  couldn't  tell.  But  his 
intensity  disturbed  her;  it  was  so  racking;  so  she 
stopped  him,  and  was  flattered  to  find  that  he 
obeyed  her  emotional  call  just  as  he  had  obeyed  the 
intellectual.     She  said : 

"Dick,  you  must  go  now.  I've  got  a  tea-party 
coming  on  in  a  few  minutes;  all  women.  You 
wouldn't  like  that." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and,  after  a  hesitation,  he 
laid  upon  her  fingers  tremulous  kisses.  As  he  went 
down  the  stairs  he  thought,  "It's  all  right;  as  if 
nothing  had  happened."  He  did  not  wonder  why 
Janet  had  forgiven  him,  did  not  even  ask  himself 
whether  she  had  come  to  love  him.  That  night 
came  later,  and  the  present  sufficed  to  the  present. 
All  he  knew  was  that  he  felt  strong  and  victorious; 
half  an  hour  later,  when  he  called  Alford,  Benson, 
and  Singleton  into  conference,  he  was  vigorous  and 
assured. 

"Listen,"  he  said.  "I  want  you  to  prepare  the 
ground  about  .  .  .  machine-guns.  I  can't  tell  you 
yet  what's  going  to  be  done  about  them.  Just  now 
I  want  you,  Benson,  to  get  hold  of  the  facts;  what 
was  the  establishment  of  machine-guns  before  the 
war  in  England  and  in  Germany.     How  many  we 

22  327 


"8  CALIBAN  *g 

ordered  in  July,  '14;  how  many  ordered  since;  how 
many  delivered  per  month.  And,  Singleton,  you 
might  tackle  the  inspection  side,  see  how  many  have 
been  passed  and  how  many  rejected.  Might  raise 
a  stink  against  the  Enfield  Small  Arms  factory.  And, 
I  think,  Alford,  you  might  start  gently  with  leader- 
ettes, talking  about  machine-guns.  We  want  to 
create  an  atmosphere  of  suspicion,  you  know.  The 
usual  gathering  storm.  Don't  say  anything,  but 
go  on  hinting.  And  when  we're  ready  then  it's  up 
Jenkins  with  .  .  .  but  I'll  tell  you  later." 

The  office  was  rather  excited  until  March.  When 
the  Boss  hid  facts  they  must  indeed  be  frightful. 
Day  by  day  he  led  the  Gazette,  beginning  gently  with 
references  to  the  value  of  the  machine-gun;  he 
passed  on  to  the  advantage  it  gave  the  Germans; 
then  by  degrees  came  shocking  stories  of  massa- 
cres of  British  battalions  by  two  machine-guns  and 
half  a  dozen  German  gunners.  He  saw  with  pleas- 
ure that  public  opinion  was  disturbed.  A  question 
was  asked  in  the  House  and  met  as  usual  with  the 
reply  that  a  statement  would  be  against  the  public 
interest.  When  the  matter  began  to  be  raised  in 
his  presence  at  lunch-parties,  and  when  at  last  a 
meeting  was  called  by  the  young  Tories  to  appoint 
a  deputation  to  see  the  Premier,  Buhner  realized 
that  he  must  strike.  He  did  so  with  dramatic  swift- 
ness. He  did  not  tell  his  staff  until  only  a  few  min- 
utes were  left  to  spare.  They  were  frightened,  but 
nobody  resisted,  and  next  morning  the  head-line  and 
the  placards  said  all  over  England: 

LORD  IMMINGHAM  MUST  GO! 
328 


•8?  THE  FURIES  *8? 

The  sensation  was  immediate,  and  a  cry  of  fury 
arose.  The  next  day  brought  letters  from  seven 
thousand  subscribers  of  the  Daily  Gazette  to  cancel 
their  subscriptions,  but  it  also  brought  an  access 
of  circulation  of  two  hundred  and  ten  thousand, 
which,  subject  to  swaying  fortune,  ended  by  almost 
maintaining  itself.  The  only  person  who  seemed 
unmoved  was  Lord  Immingham  People  hardly 
dared  talk  to  him  about  it.  When  at  last  two  old 
comrades  ventured  to  sympathize  Immingham 
quietly  took  a  cigar  from  his  case,  bit  off  the  end, 
and  spat  it  into  the  fireplace.  He  did  nothing  more 
to  the  end  of  the  agitation.  But  the  Cabinet  felt 
less  secure;  Buhner  terrified  them;  if  he  attacked 
Immingham  he  would  not  hesitate  to  attack  them, 
and,  as  the  war  was  not  going  very  well,  they  couldn't 
risk  it.  The  rest  is  commonplace  history,  and  week 
by  week  Buhner  recorded  with  exultation  the  in- 
crease in  the  supply  of  machine-guns.  He  was 
honestly  glad  for  his  country's  sake.  He  desperately 
wanted  those  guns,  pregnant  with  victory,  but  he 
also  enjoyed  his  power,  and  it  was  in  all  sincerity 
that,  six  months  later,  he  headed  a  leaderette, 
"  Alone  I  Did  It."  He  had  enjoyed  himself  entirely, 
and  he  had  never  been  afraid.  Once  Janet  asked 
him  whether  he  did  not  realize  that  he  might  have 
been  prosecuted  under  D.  O.  R.  A.  Bulmer  laughed 
and  said: 

"  Jailing  me  would  have  been  a  noisy  affair." 

But  his  mood  with  Janet  now  was  less  and  less 

easy;    between  violent  attempts  at  caresses  which 

she  half  repelled  interposed  his  growing  excitement. 

Sometimes  he  would  not  sit  down,  but  for  half  an 

329 


jg CALIBAN *5? 

hour  at  a  time  paced  about  the  drawing-room,  his 
voice  husky  and  his  eyes  injected,  smelling  danger, 
spitting  defiance.  The  shortage  of  machine-guns 
led  him  to  think  that  all  other  perils  were  equally 
neglected.  He  was  still  clamoring  for  the  deporta- 
tion of  aliens,  demanding  that  policemen  should  have 
power  to  stop  anybody  in  the  street  and  make  them 
say  " thief";  any  man  who  slurred  the  "th"  to  sail 
for  Holland.     Often  he  ended  in  incoherence. 

"Government!  Dutch  barbers! . .  .  Dutch  spies! 
Spies !  The  blockade  is  a  sieve,  a  damn  sieve.  We're 
feeding  the  Germans!  Feeding  'em.  And  there  are 
some  find  their  profit  in  it.  They're  trading  with 
the  enemy,  drawing  in  German  gold.  German  gold  is 
being  poured  over  the  country!  A  man  with  a  for- 
eign accent  called  to  see  me,  and  missed  me  the  day 
before.     There  you  are!    What  could  he  want?" 

"But  they  couldn't  bribe  you,"  said  Janet. 

He  did  not  listen.  In  his  red  dream  no  island  of 
sweet  reason  emerged.  He  was  so  excited  that  she 
led  him  to  Primrose  Hill  to  compel  him  to  take  the 
air,  to  try  to  quiet  him.  But  he  shook  his  fist  at 
London  in  her  sleepy  hollow;  to  him  London  stank 
with  corruption  only  less  evilly  than  with  slackness. 
He  gripped  Janet's  hand  carelessly.  He  did  not 
know  how  close  to  him  she  was  that  day,  so  stricken 
was  she  by  fear  for  his  sanity. 

Indeed,  he  was  now  but  half  responsible.  He  was 
ready  to  attack  or  defend  without  investigation,  and 
in  this  nervous  state  any  avenue  seemed  safe,  any 
man  might  prove  a  savior.  It  was  thus  that  he 
made  Mr.  Digby,  a  steel  manufacturer  and  member 
for  a  northern  constituency.    He  met  Digby  at  a 

330 


%  THE  FURIES % 

banquet  and  was  impressed,  not  only  by  his  quiet 
ferocity,  by  his  passion  for  excess,  but  by  a  trick  of 
speech.  Whenever  Digby  made  a  statement  he 
added,  "  That's  number  one."  To  the  next  state- 
ment he  added,  "  That's  number  two."  He  went 
on,  "The  conclusion  is  this,  and  that's  number 
three."  Buhner  immediately  grew  enthusiastic  over 
this  logical  business  man  and  proclaimed  him  "The 
Man."  Having  declared  him  "The  Man,"  he  forced 
Digby  into  swift  popularity.  He  sent  "The  Man" 
to  address  meetings  at  Albert  Hall;  he  reported  him 
in  extenso.  He  cartooned  him,  jackbooted,  and  kick- 
ing out  Mr.  Asquith.  Then  Mr.  Digby  was  given 
an  office,  created  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  Buhner 
quiet,  and  within  a  few  weeks  became  ignoble. 
Being  in  power  he  could  do  no  good.  One  morning 
five  trawlers  were  sunk  outside  Dover,  and  "The 
Man"  became  "The  Worm."  Bulmer  slew  him 
by  means  of  leaders  in  The  Day  and  cartoons  in  the 
Gazette.  Then  he  sought  another  man.  This  set- 
ting up  and  pulling  down  of  men  was,  in  Bulmer, 
half  hysteria,  half  caprice.  He  was  entirely  success- 
ful, but  he  was  at  the  mercy  of  impression.  Thus, 
as  soon  as  he  had  a  new  impression,  he  needed  a 
new  man.  And  when  "The  Man"  ceased  to  be 
1  *  The  Man ' '  he  never  forgave  him.  There  was  about 
Bulmer  a  good  deal  of  Warwick  the  King-maker, 
and  nothing  of  General  Monk.  His  newspapers  were 
sensational  because  he  was  sensational.  When  he 
led  them  they  excited  him  and  made  him  more 
sensational.  Now  he  was  coursing  the  town  in  a 
Rolls-Royce  that  was  never  fast  enough,  to  the  echo 
of  the  yells  of  his  newsboys,  who  terrified  him  with 

331 


^  CALIBAN  *g 

his  own  news.  During  that  time  Janet  so  pitied  him 
that  she  thought  she  loved  him.  For  she  had  dis- 
covered in  him  a  constructive  strain.  One  day  he 
said  to  her : 

"When  this  war's  done  there's  going  to  be  a  dif- 
ferent England.    I  wish  I  had  the  building  of  it." 

How  would  you  build  it?" 

No  more  small  farms  and  small  holdings,  but 
great  grain  farms  with  cornfields  twenty  miles  long, 
and  electric  plows  to  make  the  furrows.  In  the 
middle  of  the  farm  a  model  village  with  bathrooms, 
electric  light,  telephones;  local  clubs,  local  theaters, 
local  libraries,  local  dancing-halls,  swimming  baths, 
hot  and  cold;  and  everybody  would  have  their  place 
in  it.  Uniform,  if  possible,  the  laborers  to  be  pri- 
vates, the  foremen  sergeants,  the  managers  to  have 
commissions.  Railways  with  slip  coaches  to  drop 
the  produce  at  every  small  town,  or,  better,  a  mov- 
ing carpet  all  round  England  that'd  never  stop  at 
all.  Send  your  letters  by  airplane.  And  lay  out  your 
towns  properly.  Cut  all  the  streets  at  right  angles 
and  call  them  by  their  numbers.  Have  a  store  every 
five  hundred  yards  exactly,  and  a  public-house  every 
half-mile.  Order;  we  want  order.  We  want  the 
shop  at  the  corner  to  be  the  tailor,  the  next  the 
butcher,  the  next  the  grocer,  the  next  the  barber, 
and  so  on.  All  over  the  town,  all  over  the  country, 
all  over  the  world.  Same  language  in  London  and 
Abyssinia.  Same  sort  of  shirt  along  the  same  lati- 
tude. Food  to  be  regulated  according  to  tempera- 
ture. No  more  coal,  no  more  gas.  Make  every- 
thing electric.  No  more  washing  up ;  press  a  button 
and  scald.    No  more  washing  floors,  but  make  'em 

332 


°Q1 


jB THE  FURIES         K 

of  vulcanized  cardboard  and  peel  off  a  sheet  when 
it's  dirty.  And  no  more  of  those  fanciful  local  varia- 
tions. I'm  for  democracy,  I  am.  Divide  Africa  and 
Asia  into  County  Councils.  And  those  into  Borough 
Councils,  and  so  on.  Janet,  there'll  come  a  day 
when,  at  the  same  time,  the  same  lesson,  in  the  same 
language,  will  be  dictated  to  every  child  in  every 
class  in  the  whole  world;  little  boys  in  New  York 
and  little  niggers  in  the  Cameroons.  Of  course,"  he 
added,  regretfully,  "  they'd  still  be  black  and  white. 
Still,  one  might  alter  the  marriage  law.  One  might 
average  up." 

She  smiled.     She  did  not  know  that  he  could 
conceive  Utopia. 


Chapter  VI 
Lord  Immingham 

"  T  MUST  go,"  said  Bulmer.    Then,  after  a  pause, 

1  as  if  this  slightly  flattered  him,  "I'm  going  to 
see  Lord  Irnmingham." 

"Oh,"  said  Janet,  "that'll  be  interesting." 

"Yes."  Then,  hurriedly,  so  that  she  might  not 
discern  a  certain  nervousness  in  his  voice:  "If  they 
think  they're  going  to  bully  me  they'll  find  out 
they're  mistaken.  I'll  show 'em.  Immingham!  Old 
elastic-sided  jackboot !   I'll  tweak  his  nose,  tweak  it." 

Janet  smiled.  She  liked  him  when  thus  in  ebulli- 
tion. She  understood  that  some  disagreement  must 
lie  between  Bulmer  and  Lord  Immingham.  So  she 
said,  lightly: 

"Well,  I'm  sure  you'll  enjoy  yourself.  I  suppose 
he  wants  to  scold  you?" 

"Scold  me!"  said  Bulmer,  opening  the  door. 
"We'll  see  about  that.  Of  course  I  know  he's 
tough  in  his  way.  Not  like  going  to  see  other  people, 
like  Churchill,  blinded  with  his  own  limelight.  I'm 
rather  surprised  they  didn't  turn  the  Premier  on  to 
me.  He  settles  strikes,  he  smacks  the  faces  of  the 
Lords,  he  busts  up  the  land  system,  he's  the  maid  of 
all  dirty  work.  Still  ...  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it 
to-morrow." 

In  fact,  Bulmer  did  not  give  Janet  complete  de- 

334 


%  LORD  IMMINGHAM  *8 

tails  of  his  interview,  because  it  was  not  entirely 
satisfactory.  It  had  an  inconclusive  quality.  At 
six  o'clock,  after  waiting  less  than  a  minute,  he  was 
shown  into  a  large  room  where,  behind  a  shabby 
desk,  sat  a  solidly  built  man  with  a  long  body ,  who, 
seated,  seemed  tall.  The  unsmiling  figure  shook  his 
hand  without  rising,  and,  looking  elsewhere,  indi- 
cated a  seat.  Then  Lord  Immingham  fastened  upon 
him  a  fishy  stare.  Buhner  had  heard  of  this  charac- 
teristic, and  met  his  eyes  with  a  hostile  glitter.  He 
thought:  "You  want  to  stare  me  down,  do  you? 
Well,  we'll  see."  And  so  for  a  moment  they  faced 
each  other.  Seconds  passed,  and  Bulmer  grew  con- 
scious that  the  effort  was  greater  than  he  had  ex- 
pected. The  soldier  was  looking  at  him,  neither  in- 
viting him  to  speak  nor  as  if  meditating  over  him, 
nor  as  if  he  disliked  him.  He  looked  at  him  as  if 
he  were  not  looking  at  him.  It  was  irritating,  and 
Buhner  found  his  lips  twitching  with  the  words  he 
wanted  to  utter.  But  he  held  himself  down,  and 
still  Lord  Immingham  stared  at  him  as  if  he  had  all 
eternity  before  him.  Bulmer  did  not  move,  and  at 
last  scored,  for  Lord  Immingham,  in  a  tired  way, 
remarked : 

"This  sort  of  thing.  You  know.  Can't  go  on. 
Damn  nuisance." 

"What  sort  of  thing  do  you  refer  to?"  asked  Bul- 
mer, with  elaborate  politeness.  As  Lord  Immingham 
did  not  reply,  he  forgot  how  he  should  handle  him, 
and  burst  out,  "If  you  mean  that  you  dislike  refer- 
ences to  yourself  and  your  policy  in  the  papers,  well, 
I'll  tell  you  at  once  that  my  papers  can't  be  bought 
and  my  papers  can't  be  bullied." 

335 


^  CALIBAN  'S? 

Lord  Immingham  gave  no  indication  that  this 
was  what  he  meant,  so  Buhner,  very  uncomfortable, 
went  on: 

"Of  course  I  know  perfectly  well  that  government 
departments  don't  want  unfavorable  news  printed 
until  they're  so  stale  that  nobody  wants  to  read  'em. 
I  suppose  you  want  to  impose  a  censorship.  Well, 
you've  got  one;  you've  got  the  Press  Bureau."  As 
Lord  Immingham  said  nothing,  Bulmer  grew  un- 
wise, and  added,  truculently:  "The  Press  Bureau! 
I  wipe  my  boots  on  it." 

After  a  moment  Lord  Immingham,  as  if  he  wanted 
to  save  time,  said: 

"Your  papers  get  in  the  way.  That  machine-gun 
business,  for  instance." 

"Oh,"  said  Bulmer,  "I  thought  as  much.  Well, 
Lord  Immingham,  you  won't  deny  we  were  very 
short  of  machine-guns,  and  that  if  I  hadn't  been 
there  to  ginger  up  the  country  we'd  be  short  of  'em 
still.  It's  the  business  of  the  papers  to  keep  the 
government  up  to  date  and  to  keep  things  humming, 
while  the  government's  job  is  to  keep  out  of  date  and 
to  keep  comfortable." 

"I  know  all  about  that,"  said  Immingham.  "Not 
3^our  job  at  all.  Your  job's  to  get  advertisements 
for  your  papers  and  make  money." 

Upon  this  Bulmer  lost  his  temper.  He  felt  him- 
self in  the  presence  of  a  man  to  whom  the  press 
represented  a  trade  and  not  a  sacerdoce.  For  some 
time  he  lectured  Lord  Immingham  on  the  value  of 
the  press,  its  educational  powers,  its  capacity  for 
banding  men  together  in  the  pursuit  of  a  common 
cause.     All  through,  Lord  Immingham  stared  at 

336 


*g  LORD  IMMINGHAM  *$ 

him  as  if  thinking  of  something  else.  Then  he 
said: 

"We  don't  want  the  press.  Makes  talk.  Coun- 
try's all  talk." 

"Talk  molds  the  world,"  said  Buhner,  "and  I 
tell  you,  Lord  Immingham,  that  if  I  have  too  much 
nonsense  from  this  government  I  won't  advertise 
their  damn  war." 

Lord  Immingham  looked  unmoved,  probably 
aware  that  the  war  would  go  on  all  the  same.  So 
Bulmer  grew  angrier. 

"It's  all  very  well  coming  along  and  trying  to 
hector  me,  and  bully  me,  and  telling  me  what  I 
ought  to  say  and  what  I  ought  not  to  say.  There's 
lots  I  could  have  said  that'd  have  put  the  govern- 
ment into  Queer  Street:  what  did  you  people  do 
when  French  was  retiring  after  Mons  and  screaming 
aloud  for  material  to  replace  what  he'd  lost?  Noth- 
ing. You  just  gave  out  that  everything  had  been 
replaced.  Instead  of  sending  out  guns  and  transport 
that  you  hadn't  got,  you  gave  the  country  a  dose  of 
Mother  Seigel's  Soothing  Syrup.  I  could  have  raised 
the  roof  off  this  building  if  I'd  chosen  to  print  the 
truth.  And  it  will  be  printed  one  day,  when  French 
tells  the  world  why  Haig  stepped  into  his  shoes. 
Perhaps  it  won't  be  written  till  you're  dead,  but  it 
won't  make  you  a  pretty  monument." 

"I'm  not  talking  about  that,"  said  Immingham, 
after  a  long  pause.  Then,  with  a  rare  flash  of  irony : 
"It's  not  like  you,  Lord  Bulmer,  to  talk  of  something 
that  happened  over  a  year  ago.  Out  of  date,  you 
know." 

This  easy  taunt  stung  Bulmer,  and,   suddenly 

337 


*$  CALIBAN  12 

espousing  in  public  the  munitions  campaign  which 
Lord  Northcliffe  had  captured  under  his  nose,  he 
began  to  threaten.  As  he  talked  he  knew  that  he 
hated  this  obstinate,  cold  personage,  who  sat  there 
listening  to  him  as  if  he  did  not  want  to  hear  him. 
He  got  up  to  talk  more  freely,  and  ended  about  his 
adversary.  Immingham  followed  him  with  his  eyes, 
massive,  careless.  It  was  elephant  versus  tiger,  and 
so  far  the  elephant  refused  to  do  more  than  watch 
his  active  antagonist.  When  Bulmer  stopped  Im- 
mingham said:  "I'm  not  going  to  be  bullied  about. 
If  your  papers  don't  toe  the  line  within  a  week,  we'll 
put  D.  O.  R.  A.  on  to  you." 

"Oh,"  said  Bulmer,  "is  that  the  idea?  Well,  let 
me  point  out  that  you  won't  D.  O.  R.  A.  me  so 
easily  as  you  think.  To  begin  with,  you  can't  take 
me  into  a  police  court.  I'm  a  peer.  You'll  have  to 
try  me  in  the  House  of  Lords,  and  I  can  tell  you, 
Lord  Immingham,  that  that'll  make  more  noise 
than  the  whole  of  your  damned  artillery." 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  Lord  Immingham  smiled, 
a  very  slow,  gradual  smile,  and  said: 

"Wouldn't  dream  of  trying  you.  Pop  you  into 
the  Tower.  Plenty  of  time  to  try  you  when  the 
war's  done." 

Bulmer  also  smiled,  and  suddenly  felt  immensely 
superior  to  this  simple,  stockish  soldier.  He  felt 
sorry  for  Lord  Immingham,  who  was  unable  to 
realize  what  public  opinion  meant,  and,  above  all, 
did  not  understand  the  cowardice  of  his  fellow- 
Ministers.  For  the  first  time  he  understood  the 
stupidity  of  this  great  figure,  who  had  gained  his 

position  by  inactivity,  by  carelessness  of  the  feelings 

338 


*8?  LORD  IMMINGHAM  *8 

of  others,  by  immense  freedom  from  emotion.  He 
had  become  superior  through  his  own  inferiority. 
He  had  mastered  men  because  he  had  never  tried  to 
understand  them,  and  so  had  made  no  weakening 
allowances  for  their  temperaments.  He  had  seen 
the  world  in  terms  of  correspondence  between 
Q.  M.  G.  2  and  Q.  M.  G.  4.  He  had  moved  men  as 
he  shifted  ballast.  His  inhumanity  had  mastered 
their  humanity.  He  had  rigged  himself  high  on  his 
ignorance  and  had  imposed  his  worn-out  ideas  by; 
disdaining  to  state  them.  For  a  long  time  Buhner 
had  hated  Immingham,  his  childish  brutality,  his 
intolerance  that  transcended  optimism  and  pessi- 
mism, his  incapacity  to  harbor  either,  his  extremism, 
that  arose  from  inability  to  conceive  the  extreme. 
He  saw  that  Lord  Immingham's  high  confidence 
was  made  up  of  heavy  disdain  for  all  men. 

So  he  got  up  and  said:  "Well,  there's  nothing  to 
add.  I'll  do  what  I  choose,  and  you'll  do  what  you 
choose.  And  one  thing  you  won't  do  is  to  put  a 
muzzle  on  me.  I've  got  everything  I  want:  money, 
power,  rank.  Now  I'm  enjoying  the  great  luxury — 
the  right  to  tell  the  truth.' '  As  Lord  Immingham 
did  not  indicate  any  further  emotion,  Buhner  felt 
he  must  attack  him,  shake  him,  compel  him  to  show 
temper,  to  show  something.  So  he  grew  personal. 
"I  wonder  what  you  thought  could  be  the  result  of 
this.  I  wonder  whether  you've  consulted  your  col- 
leagues, and  whether  the  Cabinet,  in  despair  of  talk- 
ing me  over  by  sending  me  young  William,  have 
put  you  on  to  me  to  frighten  me?  You  won't  frighten 
me,  Lord  Immingham.  You'll  only  irritate  me. 
And  two  can  play  at  frightening.    I  made  Digby,  I 

339 


*8?  CALIBAN  °$ 

can  unmake  Digby,  I  can  unmake  you.  I  can  do 
a  good  deal  one  way  or  another  for  your  future, 
which  is  as  uncertain  as  that  of  all  men." 

Lord  Immingham  got  up  and  replied,  "All  men's 
future  is  uncertain  until  they  are  hanged,"  shook 
Buhner's  hand,  and  sat  down  again  at  his  desk, 
where  he  busied  himself  with  folders  full  of  minutes. 
The  interview  was  finished. 


Chapter  VII 
Spate 

41  \  I  TILL  your  lordship  see  Lady  Buhner?" 

VV  "Oh,  what?"  Then  instinct  told  him  to 
be  casual,  and  swiftly  he  realized  that  he  could  not 
afford  to  refuse  to  see  her.  So,  in  a  careless  tone 
that  concealed  savagery,  "Show  her  in."  He  had 
not  seen  Vi  for  two  years,  and  though  he  was  enraged 
by  her  audacity  he  was  curious  of  her.  She  was  the 
past.  When  she  came  in  her  attitude  was  half 
cringing,  half  defiant.  As  if  she  knew  that  she  was 
trying  to  force  his  hand  and  was  not  quite  sure  that 
she  could  do  it. 

"How  much  do  you  want?"  he  asked.  While  she 
hesitated  he  surveyed  her.  She  had  grown  rather 
older  in  those  two  years;  now  she  looked  forty-nine, 
though  her  hair  shone  with  a  peculiar  blackness. 
There  was  a  touch  of  blue  in  the  dye.  Round  the 
fine  eyes  ran  a  little  webbing  of  wrinkles,  and  the 
skin  of  the  cheeks,  rather  loose,  was  running  down 
into  the  loose  flesh  of  the  neck.  She  was  rather 
stouter,  too,  and,  though  dressed  with  heavy  smart- 
ness, she  was  displeasing.  One  could  guess  that  her 
legs  were  too  thick. 

"Want?"  she  said.  Then,  with  a  hesitant  smile: 
"How  you  do  put  things,  Dick!    I  was  passing;   I 

341 


*g  CALIBAN  H 

just  thought  I'd  come  in  and  see  you.  Can't  a 
woman  come  and  see  her  husband  now  and  then, 
even  if  they  haven't  always  got  on?" 

"How  much  do  you  want?" 

She  flushed,  and  an  honest  expression  of  regret 
crossed  her  face.  She  did  not  love  him,  but  they 
had  never  exactly  quarreled.  What  had  she  done, 
she  wondered.     So  she  said: 

"  Please  don't  talk  to  me  like  that.  I've  done  you 
no  harm.  I've  kept  out  of  your  way  all  these  years. 
Of  course  it's  been  lonely — a  woman  alone,  you 
know." 

"  Please  don't  be  sentimental,  and  tell  me  how 
much  you  want." 

"I  don't  want  anything,"  said  Vi,  getting  up  with 
as  much  dignity  as  her  weight  would  allow,  "only 
I  think  it's  a  pity  you  and  I  should  go  on  like  this. 
We're  not  as  young  as  we  were.  We  began  life  so 
happily,  and  .  .  ."  he  watched  her,  determined  not 
to  help  her,  "we're  getting  on  in  years."  As  he  said 
nothing,  she  ceased  to  maneuver.  "Dick,  won't 
you  take  me  back?" 

"Why  should  I?  We've  done  very  well  without 
each  other." 

"You  used  to  love  me;  at  least  you  said  you  did. 
Perhaps  it  was  my  fault.  Perhaps  I  didn't  give  you 
all  you  wanted." 

He  looked  at  her  more  gently.  He  remembered 
that  he  had  loved  her  in  the  way  in  which  she  under- 
stood love.  She  had  been  violently  desirable;  she 
had  given  him  the  first  somber  glimpses  of  passion, 
but  she  had  never  crowned  with  a  garland  of  roses 

the  dancing  satyr  of  her  animalism. 

342 


jlj SPATE ^^         *g 

"My  poor  old  Vi,"  he  said,  "I'm  sorry,  but  it's 
no  good.  One  doesn't  do  at  forty-nine  what  one 
failed  to  do  at  twenty-nine.  Perhaps  one  doesn't 
do  it  when  one's  twenty-nine,  but  one  believes  one 
does.  Illusion,  you  know.  And  one  doesn't  get 
illusion  twice." 

For  a  moment  the  dark  woman  hesitated;  then  a 
rush  of  blood  colored  her  dark  cheeks  brick,  and  she 
said,  in  a  low  voice : 

"Oh,  doesn't  one?  Some  people  do.  A  little  bird 
told  me  that  it  looks  as  if  you  had." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  I  say,"  said  Vi,  smoothly. 

Then  as  Bulmer,  maddened  by  this  bromide, 
banged  the  table,  she  added:  "I'm  not  so  cut  off 
as  you  think.  I  hear  things.  What'd  you  say  if 
I  was  to  go  and  see  Mrs.  Willoughby?" 

Bulmer  jumped  up,  and  she  shrank  away  from 
the  fury  in  his  eyes. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "that's  your  little  game!  How 
dare  you  mention  her  name;  the  sweetest,  the 
loveliest  of  all!" 

^  "Dare!"  cried  Vi,  angered  by  this  praise  of  her 
rival.  "That's  a  fine  word  to  use  to  your  wife. 
What  would  there  be  extraordinary  if  your  wife 
was  to  call  on  one  of  her  husband's  dearest  friends? 
I've  half  a  mind  to  divorce  you." 

"Well,  do  it,"  said  Bulmer.  "I  asked  you  to, 
long  ago.  Go  on,  divorce  me;  I'll  give  you  cause. 
I'll  knock  your  head  off  for  you  if  you  need  any 
cruelty." 

He  looked  so  threatening  that  she  stepped  back. 
As  he  did  not  follow  her,  she  began  to  mouth  threats, 

23  343 


Tg  CALIBAN  *S? 

She'd  call  on  Mrs.  Willoughby.  She'd  give  her  some 
sweetest  and  some  loveliest  of  all.  She'd  expose 
him.  She'd  make  him  the  talk  of  the  town.  As  she 
grew  shrill,  he  interrupted  her: 

"Look  here,  I've  had  enough  of  this.  Another 
word  and  I  cut  off  your  allowance.  Oh  yes,  I 
know;  it's  settled  on  you,  but  it'll  take  you  time 
to  get  it.  You  shall  sue  me  for  it  every  time,  and 
I'll  have  six  K.C.'s  on  the  job  to  find  out  ways  to 
make  the  law  still  slower  than  it  is.  And  if  you  go 
near  Mrs.  Willoughby,  if  you  call  on  her,  write  to 
her,  telephone  her,  or  send  anybody  to  her;  if  to 
my  knowledge  you  dare  to  think  of  her,  I'll  do  things 
to  you.  Quiet,  nasty,  criminal  things."  He  stepped 
forward,  and  she  stepped  back.  "I'll  do  secret 
things  to  you,  like  the  Chinese  tortures  in  the  maga- 
zines." Still  terrified,  she  receded  before  him  and, 
as  he  stepped  forward  again,  with  a  little  cry,  turned 
and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

Buhner  returned  to  his  desk;  pressed  a  button. 
When  Moss  came  in  he  said:  "Has  Mr.  Alsager 
been  waiting  a  long  time?    Show  him  in,  anyhow." 

Alsager  had,  for  the  last  ten  days,  been  The  Man. 
He  was  a  wall-paper  manufacturer  in  a  large  way  of 
business,  but  was  then  filling  for  the  benefit  of  his 
country  a  high  position  in  the  Ministry  of  Food. 
Bulmer  met  him  at  lunch  at  the  House  of  Commons, 
where  he  had  gone  to  meet  Digby.  Alsager  sharply 
contrasted  with  Digby;  while  Digby,  for  every 
possible  reason,  fumed  and  bellowed,  seeing  spies 
everywhere,  and  demanding  the  execution  of  U-boat 
crews,  Alsager,  with  his  heavy  jaw,  his  small,  acquisi- 
tive eyes,  his  impassive  quality,  recalled  Lord  Im- 

344 


18  SPATE  *g 

mingham.  He  let  Bulmer  talk  for  a  long  time  of 
compulsory  rationing,  which  Buhner  was  violently 
booming.  Bulmer  had  gone  so  far  as  to  put  up  a 
board  outside  Upper  Brook  Street,  on  which,  every 
day,  he  posted  a  bill  showing  the  number  of  adults 
in  the  house  and  the  number  of  ounces  of  meat, 
sugar,  and  tea  consumed.  When  he  had  done, 
Alsager  replied: 

"I  know.     I've  had  the  books  printed." 

"Oh  .  .  .  have  you?  You're  sure  rationing's  com- 
ing, then?" 

"No.  But  I  don't  pay  for  the  books,  and  I'm 
ready  for  rationing  when  it  comes." 

"Oh,  we'll  put  it  through,"  said  Bulmer,  gaily. 
"We  want  the  lowest  rations  we  can  get,  not  the 
highest.  The  less  food  a  man  gets  the  more  tragic 
he'll  feel  and  the  more  he'll  feel  he's  doing  something 
in  the  war,  so  I'm  glad  you've  got  ready  for  the 
emergency." 

"There  are  no  emergencies,"  said  Alsager,  solidly. 
"Not  if  you  foresee  them." 

Alsager  was  an  immense  success ;  he  had  the  right 
kind  of  face  for  success,  an  air  of  resolution  that  was 
merely  obstinacy,  eyes  that  looked  cautious  because 
they  were  callous;  he  said  drastic  things  because  he 
was  unable  to  realize  anybody  else's  point  of  view. 
He  became  the  first  of  Bulmer's  business  men, 
whom,  immediately  after  the  fall  of  Mr.  Asquith, 
he  decided  to  force  upon  the  government.  He  had 
three  more  favorites,  Sir  Charles  Hamerton,  head  of 
a  jam  combine,  Mr.  Edgeworth,  who  controlled  large 
rolling  mills  at  Dudley,  and  a  Scotch  stock-broker 
called  Douglas.     Day  after  day  Bulmer  collected 

345 


%  CALIBAN  H 

details  of  Civil  Service  delay  and  inefficiency,  and 
set  them  up  in  the  form  of  tales  with  a  moral.  The 
most  successful  was  the  story  of  the  despatch  by  the 
War  Office  of  sand-boxes  to  go  with  motor-cars  for 
the  purpose  of  putting  out  fires.  These  were  sent 
to  Egypt.  Bulmer  a  little  later  discovered  that  the 
painstaking  War  Office,  wishing  to  overlook  nothing, 
had  sent  to  Egypt  with  the  boxes  several  tons 
of  sand.  The  moral  ran,  "We  want  Sir  Charles 
Hamerton  to  sweep  the  dusty  cobwebs  from  the 
antique  nooks  and  crannies  of  Whitehall,  which  for 
centuries  have  been  left  unswept,  by  Mr.  Putitoff 
and  Mr.  Passiton." 

For  Bulmer,  with  the  assistance  of  Tick,  had 
created  a  large  tribe  of  civil  servants,  among  whom 
were  not  only  Mr.  Putitoff  and  Mr.  Passiton,  but 
also  Mr.  Shuffle,  Miss  Squirm,  Miss  Flapperty,  and 
Lord  Snooze.  Very  often  the  entire  menagerie  was 
mobilized  for  a  single  cartoon:  Alsager,  Hamerton, 
and  the  rest  were  generally  got  up  as  St.  Georges  in 
armor,  puncturing  Mr.  Snuffle,  while  Mr.  Passiton 
vainly  gnawed  their  armored  legs.  Douglas,  having 
revolted  one  day,  was  encouraged  by  being  repre- 
sented as  St.  Anthony,  resisting  temptation  per- 
sonified by  Miss  Flapperty.  Bulmer  was  enjoying 
himself  enormously,  not  only  because  every  morning 
and  afternoon  he  could  bellow  with  laughter  and  slap 
his  thighs  over  the  cartoon,  but  because  he  was 
succeeding.  Posts  had  been  found  for  all  his  cham- 
pions, and  he  really  believed  in  his  business  govern- 
ment. He  harbored  an  honest  hatred  of  the  Civil 
Service,  and  though  he  grew  more  hopeful  when 
Mr.  Lloyd  George  became  Premier,  he  had  suffered 

346 


*8?  SPATE  « 

terror  when  Serbia  was  crushed ;  his  mind  magnified 
every  small  evidence  of  inefficiency.  His  Liberal 
faith  was  now  half  forgotten.  He  was  glad  of  the 
coalition,  because  it  exempted  him  from  supporting 
a  party;  he  was  not  good  at  supporting,  and  he  was 
glad  of  the  coalition  because  it  was  a  compromise, 
and  so  he  could  always  attack  one  side  or  the  other. 

It  was  this  agitation,  perhaps,  prevented  him  from 
progressing  farther  with  Janet.  She  felt  compelled 
to  take  in  his  papers,  and  they  disgusted  her.  She 
was  wholly  tired  of  the  war.  She  had  never  been  a 
patriot,  but  a  vague  distaste  for  the  pacifists  forbade 
her  to  unite  with  them.  She  wanted  the  war  won, 
but  a  fine  discrimination  made  the  methods  of  war- 
winning  repulsive  to  her.  And  yet,  that  which 
repelled  attracted  her.  War  was  dramatic.  So  Bul- 
mer,  in  those  days,  found  in  his  sweet  friend  uncer- 
tain support,  an  uncertainty  that  sometimes  favored 
him.  Thus  she  showed  him  a  cutting  from  a  rival 
newspaper,  which  proved  that  the  statistics  he 
quoted  in  support  of  the  strict  blockade  misrepre- 
sented the  case,  because  they  stated  it  only  in  part. 

"Oh,  we  can't  bother  about  that,"  said  Buhner. 
"We've  got  to  win  the  war." 

"I'm  not  thinking  about  that,"  said  Janet.  "I 
quite  agree  with  you.  But  can't  we  win  the  war 
without  fraudulent  statistics?" 

"I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care,"  said  Buhner. 
"All  I  know  is,  we  want  a  strict  blockade,  and  if  we 
start  putting  down  columns  and  columns  of  figures 
nobody'll  read  them." 

"But  surely  you  agree  it's  wrong  to  mislead 
people?" 

347 


*$>  CALIBAN 


"  One's  got  to  mislead  people  if  one  wants  to  lead 
them." 

She  did  not  reply.  That  was  the  sort  of  re- 
mark with  which  Bulmer  always  silenced  her 
repugnance.  His  extremism  seemed  to  her  mag- 
nificent. But  he  was  hurt;  he  felt  the  need  to  state 
himself. 

"Oh  yes,  I  know,  you're  like  all  those  people  .  .  . 
it's  your  charm,  I  suppose;  it's  delightful  in  you, 
all  that  about  playing  the  game  and  telling  the 
truth.  But  you  can't  do  it;  you  can't  play  the 
game  with  life;  life  always  uses  loaded  dice  if  it  gets 
a  chance.  And  you  can't  tell  people  the  truth;  it's 
the  only  thing  they  don't  believe.  There's  only  one 
way  to  succeed,  and  that  is  to  lead,  honestly  if  you 
can,  but  lead." 

"Where  to?" 

"I  don't  know.  Life  goes  marching  on,  we  don't 
know  where  to.  Why  not  walk  in  the  first  row 
rather  than  in  the  last?  I  don't  know  and  I  don't 
care.  I  read  something  the  other  day  about  the 
earth  getting  cold  in  a  million  years.  Well,  we'll 
see  about  that  in  a  million  years.  For  all  we  know, 
in  a  million  years  there  may  be  nothing  left  except 
the  Daily  Gazette." 

She  laughed  at  his  seriousness.  "Dick,"  she  said, 
"I  do  hope  you  go  to  heaven  and  float  the  Eden 
Gazette,  with  an  edition  in  Greek  for  the  Elysian 
Fields,  and  others  in  Arabic  and  Hindustani  for  the 
other  peoples  of  the  British  Raj." 

"Well,  I  may  go  somewhere  else,"  said  Bulmer, 
smiling. 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Janet.     "You  see,  paper  is  so 

348 


*»  SPATE ]B 

combustible.  The  only  consolation  for  you  would 
be  the  yellow  color  of  the  flame." 

Bulmer  suddenly  grew  earnest.  "  Yellow!  What 
about  it  if  we  are  the  Yellow  Press?  I  believe  in 
the  Yellow  Press!  Anyhow,  it's  more  alive  than  the 
stewed-tea  and  pink-pill  press.  People  talk  against 
the  Yellow  Press.  It's  a  lot  they  know  about  it. 
The  Yellow  Press  is  the  biggest  thing  that  has  hap- 
pened to  the  world  since  steam,  and  that  was  the 
biggest  thing  before  then.  The  Yellow  Press  has 
moved  humanity  and  taught  it  to  read.  Oh  yes,  I 
know  you'll  say  it  has  taught  humanity  to  read 
snippets,  and  paragraphs,  and  scandal.  That's  true: 
but  what  did  humanity  read  before  I  taught  it  to 
read  something?  I'm  not  the  first  in  the  field:  the 
Daily  MaiVs  five  years  older  than  me.  But,  before 
we  came,  men  like  me,  like  Northcliffe,  like  Hulton, 
like  Rothermere,  what  do  you  think  the  people  read? 
Do  you  think  they  read  the  Times  and  the  Spectator? 
They  read  nothing.  They  ate,  they  drank,  they 
thought  just  as  much  as  a  lot  of  cattle  in  a  field. 
What  good  do  you  think  compulsory  education  was? 
Before  me  there  was  nothing  with  which  to  educate." 

"Surely,"  said  Janet,  "you  don't  educate.  You 
only  give  them  the  news." 

"Yes,  I  do  educate.  I  give  them  the  news,  yes, 
and  in  so  doing  I  teach  them  everything  a  man  needs 
to  know.  I  teach  them  geography,  I  teach  them 
history  in  a  way  in  which  they  can  learn  it.  I 
stimulate  their  interest  in  strange  things.  I've  taught 
them  that  the  thunderbolt  is  not  the  arrow  of  God; 
I've  made  them  understand  what  is  electricity,  and 
I  haven't  burdened  them  with  great  fat  columns 

349 


*g  CALIBAN 


CQ3 


filled  with  words  they  don't  understand.  I've  slung 
at  them  words  I  don't  understand  myself,  just  a  few, 
words  like  dynamo,  alternating  current.  Just  enough 
to  exercise  their  interest,  so  that  those  who  are  really 
interested  can  go  on.  I  have  blazed  the  trail  of 
knowledge.  I  have  got  them  out  of  their  Sunday- 
afternoon  sleep.  I've  interested  them  in  plays,  in 
tariffs,  in  pictures.  Bad  plays,  you  say,  and  bad  pict- 
ures. Very  likely;  that's  no  business  of  mine.  It's 
their  business  to  go  on  when  I've  started  them.  I'm 
an  agitator,  I'm  not  a  prophet.  I  show  'em  the  way; 
without  me  there'd  be  no  sign-post.  There'd  be 
nobody  except  some  mandarins  in  the  universities 
to  care  about  knowledge  and  art.  I  don't  care  about 
art  much  myself,  but  I  advertise  it.  I  make  the 
arts,  I  make  the  sciences,  because  the  Yellow  Press 
gives  them  a  chance  among  millions  of  men.  Talk 
about  the  red  flag  as  the  standard  of  revolution!  I 
say  the  yellow  flag  is  the  true  standard  of  the  revo- 
lution of  men  against  stupidity  and  ignorance.  I 
know  one  doesn't  do  that  sort  of  thing  without  doing 
some  damage.  My  little  paragraphs  have  broken 
up  the  people's  capacity  for  concentration;  they 
can't  read  a  column  now,  but  when  did  they  read 
a  column?  Never!  The  working-men  and  the  typists 
and  clerks  in  the  trains?  They  have  never  read  a 
column,  but  they  read  me.  I've  let  hysteria  loose, 
taste  for  scandal,  superficiality,  crude  views,  vul- 
garity. Yes,  I  have,  but  before  me  was  stagnation. 
In  my  pond,  at  least,  there  are  bubbles  where  twenty 
years  ago  there  was  only  frog  spawn.  You  don't 
know  what  it  was  like  in  the  'eighties,  when  I  was  a 
boy.    You  haven't  seen  your  father  sleeping  off  his 

350 


°£  SPATE  ^ 

meal  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  your  mother  counting 
the  napkins  in  the  intervals  of  reading  some  slush 
by  Ouida,  and  your  sisters  embroidering  table  cen- 
ters for  people  who'd  done  them  no  harm.  You 
haven't  lived  in  an  atmosphere  like  blanc-mange. 
But  I  have,  and  I've  burst  through  all  that.  I've 
driven  the  chariot  of  progress  through  the  black 
thickets  of  the  nineteenth  century.  I've  irritated 
the  public,  and  bullied  it,  and  excited  it  because  I've 
stimulated  its  interest.  What  would  you  have  me 
sling  at  them?  Not  the  Quarterly  Review.  Oh  yes, 
I  know  my  stuff's  not  artistic,  but  I'm  not  ashamed. 
It's  stuff  just  as  good  as  the  people  can  take,  and 
when  they  can  take  the  better  stuff  they  shall  have 
it,  because  it  is  my  job  to  give  it  'em." 

"Do  you  never  blush  for  the  stuff?"  asked  Janet. 

"No.  Yellow  can't  blush.  Besides,  why  should 
we  blush?  The  Yellow  Press  is  real  and  alive,  and 
I've  no  use  for  the  Aihenceum  and  the  Mausoleum, 
those  elegant  amusements  of  country  gentlemen  who 
have  nothing  to  do.  My  public's  busy  living,  and 
it's  got  to  be  stimulated  if  it's  to  be  interested  enough 
to  keep  alive.  It  finds  life  hard,  and  I  make  it  excit- 
ing. I  do  that  by  the  journalistic  touch;  I  make  an 
archbishop  topical.  Without  me  he  wouldn't  be 
a  topic  at  all.  If  I  chose  to  quote  Shelley  at  the  end 
of  an  advertisement  of  Bile  Beans,  I'd  make  a  popu- 
larity for  Shelley  that  he  never  got  out  of  the  Black- 
bird, or  the  Skylark,  or  whatever  bird  he  wrote  about. 
I  am  the  ginger  of  the  world.  What  I  attack 
crashes,  because  I  wake  up  all  those  who  are  ready 
to  hate  it.  What  I  support  rises,  because  millions 
of  men  are  asking  to  be  led.    They  follow  me  because 

351 


%  CALIBAN  Tg 

I  am  not  afraid.  If  an  enemy  attacks  me  I  inter- 
view him,  if  I  think  fit,  and  give  his  views  publicity 
so  that  he  may  advertise  me.  If  he  is  entirely  furi- 
ous, I  photograph  him.  But  whatever  I  do,  I  do 
the  thing  which  is  going  to  give  the  public  a  little 
shock  of  surprise  or  pleasure.  A  spirit  was  breathed 
into  Adam:  I  breathe  into  him  another  one,  the 
spirit  of  the  day.  You  understand?"  he  cried, 
urgently.  "You  see  what  I  mean?"  His  mood 
changed;  he  flung  himself  on  his  knees  by  her  side, 
clasping  her  close,  and  whispering  ardent  words. 
He  frightened  and  overwhelmed  her,  bat  delighted 
her,  as  if  even  she,  so  withdrawn,  so  cool,  even  she 
were  stimulated  and  excited  by  this  servant, of  the 
people. 

"No,  don't  ask  me  yet,"  she  murmured.  "Oh,  I 
don't  pretend  to  be  moral.  I'm  sure  of  you,  yes, 
but  I'm  not  sure  of  myself  yet,  for  what  I  give  you 
I  sha'n't  take  away."  Unable  to  understand  her 
own  emotions,  she  bent  down,  swiftly  kissed  his 
cheek,  and  freed  herself  before  he  could,  in  incredu- 
lous delight,  press  farther  his  apparent,  victory. 


Chapter  VIII 
Proclamations 

BULMER  had  several  times  heard  the  name  of 
Major  Houghton.  For  two  or  three  months  it 
had  recurred  in  Janet's  conversation.  "Major 
Houghton  says";  or,  "Major  Houghton  told  me  it 
isn't  the  shelling  the  men  mind,  but  .  .  ."  A  curi- 
osity awoke  in  Buhner,  not  because  Houghton  in- 
terested him,  but  because  he  could  not  bear  the 
existence  of  the  unknown.  So  he  was  interested  to 
meet  him  at  lunch  at  Janet's.  It  was  a  small  party. 
Besides  himself  and  Janet  there  were  only  two 
elderly  relatives  of  hers,  Major  Houghton,  and 
Eleanor,  who  had  been  asked,  he  did  not  know  why. 
During  lunch  Buhner  seemed  to  dominate  the  assem- 
bly. His  victory  over  Lord  Immingham  in  the  mat- 
ter of  machine-guns  still  conferred  upon  him  a  cer- 
tain prestige,  and  so  for  three  courses  he  was  able  to 
mouth  defiance  of  the  government  and  to  threaten 
its  individual  members.  He  had  just  invented  a 
new  word,  "shuffle";  everything  was  shuffle,  and 
everybody  was  shuffling.  So  it  was  to  be  until  he 
discovered  a  new  word.  That  morning  he  was  par- 
ticularly happy,  because  Mr.  Edgeworth  had  at  last 
been  convicted  in  the  House  of  having  allowed  an 
invention  to  be  returned  unexamined. 

353 


*»  CALIBAN  *8? 

"Of  course  he  explained/ '  said  Bulmer;  "  that's 
what  a  Minister's  for.  To  find  sixteen  different 
reasons  why  a  thing  hasn't  been  done.  It  made 
one  ill,  I  can  tell  you,  to  listen  to  him,  smooth  like 
a  wet  seal,  talking  of  the  public  interest  and  the 
necessities  of  the  situation,  and  all  the  balderdash 
that  private  secretaries  teach  their  Ministers,  the 
same  old  song  always  taught  to  the  new  parrot." 

Houghton  laughed,  and  Bulmer  looked  at  him 
approvingly. 

"Parrots!"  he  said  again,  "shuffling  from  one  leg 
to  the  other.  First  they  shuffle  on  the  right  leg,  and 
then  they  shuffle  on  the  left  leg,  and  then  they  stand 
on  their  head  and  hold  on  to  their  perch  with  their 
beak,  and  try  to  shuffle  that  way.  Shuffle!  I'll 
have  the  lot  out.  You  saw  the  placard  of  The  Day? 
Double  crown  and  bright  yellow,  and  just  the  word 
\ Shuffle'  printed  on  it.  I  expect  Edgeworth  read 
that  placard  as  he  went  to  what  he  calls  work  after 
his  eggs  and  bacon;  it  isn't  shuffle  he  did;  it's 
totter." 

The  elderly  relatives  watched  him  with  horror  and 
delight.  They  had  in  their  lifetime  met  a  number 
of  lords,  the  sort  of  lords  who,  in  the  country,  ex- 
changed a  joke  with  a  laborer,  radiated  patronage 
and  benevolence  at  horse-shows,  and  only  voted 
in  the  House  once  in  their  lives  against  the  Parlia- 
ment bill  of  that  pettifogging  Welsh  attorney,  Lloyd 
George.  But  this  sort  of  lord  was  new  to  them. 
His  voice,  his  rolling  eye,  and  his  incredible  deter- 
mination to  do  things,  smash  things,  put  up  things, 
instead  of  leaving  things  where  they  beautifully 
were,  as  was  the  way  of  their  sort  of  lord.    Their 

354 


*8?  PROCLAMATIONS  ]8 

amazement  thrilled  Bulmer.  Seeing  that  they  were 
impressed,  he  felt  he  must  impress  them  more,  and 
so  addressed  them  almost  exclusively.  He  was  going 
to  do  things  to  Mr.  Edgeworth.  Mr.  Edgeworth  was 
going  to  be  an  ex-Minister  within  a  week.  There 
was  going  to  be  a  leader  about  him  in  The  Day.  And 
when  a  man  got  a  leader  in  The  Day  either  he  went 
up  or  he  went  down. 

"But,"  faltered  at  last  the  elderly  female  relative, 
"everybody  says  that  Mr.  Edgeworth's  a  great 
business  man.     Who  are  you  going  to  have  instead?  " 

"Anybody,"  said  Bulmer.  "One  couldn't  lose  on 
the  deal.  But  it  isn't  a  question  of  getting  some- 
body. I've  got  somebody  in  my  mind's  eye.  There's 
a  young  man  called  Anstey,  quite  a  young  member; 
but  he's  got  hold  of  an  idea  .  .  .  well,  perhaps  I'd 
better  not  mention  it,  but  I  tell  you  it's  an  idea  that 
would  make  a  Berliner  wish  he  was  in  .  .  .  the  lower 
regions  instead  of  in  Berlin.  There's  not  much  in 
his  way.  Anstey's  going  up,  and  Edgeworth's  going 
down.  And  each  of  them  will  be  kicked  his  own  way 
by  the  same  boot.     Mine." 

The  old  couple  felt  very  pleased  and  in  the  know 
when  a  few  days  later  they  read  in  The  Day  (which 
they  still  took  in,  though  much  puzzled  by  the  re- 
pairs effected  since  the  Mortimer  period)  that  Mr. 
Edgeworth  was  to  take  a  peerage.  They  did  not 
exactly  realize  that  this  was  a  disgrace,  but  a  friend 
insinuated  that  a  peerage  was,  in  these  days,  less 
significant  than  a  seat  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  anyhow  it  was  a  very  new  peerage.  Simulta- 
neously Anstey  boomed,  thanks  to  the  mysterious 
booming  of  his  invention.    Anstey  was  photographed 

355 


%  CALIBAN  *% 

at  home,  sometimes  in  his  laboratory,  working  on 
his  bomb  (which  later  turned  out  to  be  filled  with 
prussic  acid),  and  also  in  gayer  moods,  playing  with 
his  dogs,  or  carrying  upon  each  knee  a  little  girl 
borrowed  for  the  occasion.  The  entire  Bulmer  press 
went  Ansteyite,  and  for  a  few  weeks  it  was  under- 
stood that  "the  bracing  influence  of  a  gallant  young 
soldier"  was  going  to  redeem  Mr.  Edgeworth's  un- 
fortunate department. 

While  Bulmer  terrified  and  delighted  Janet's  rela- 
tives, Major  Houghton  was  being  interviewed  by 
Eleanor  on  war  and  the  warrior.  She  was  horrified 
when  Houghton  told  her  that  he  hoped  his  conva- 
lescence would  be  slow,  as  he  wanted  to  hang  on 
and  get  a  chance  with  the  grouse. 

"But,"  cried  Eleanor,  whose  every  angle  expressed 
shocked  incredulity,  "do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't 
want  to  go  back?  " 

"Not  at  all,"  he  said.  "Why  should  I  want  to? 
Do  you  think  I  enjoy  it?" 

Eleanor  hesitated.  She  couldn't  call  him  a  cow- 
ard as  he  wore  the  M.C.  and  a  wound  stripe,  and 
in  addition  carried  his  right  arm  in  a  sling. 

"Enjoy  it?"  she  said.  "No,  I  didn't  say  that. 
But  surely  you  want  to  go  back.  All  men  want  to 
go  back." 

"You  should  ask  my  battery,"  said  Houghton. 
"The  only  place  they  want  to  go  back  to  is  the  base. 
As  for  me,  I'd  have  bolted  if  Byng  hadn't  posted 
infantry  with  machine-guns  behind  our  brigade." 
"But,"  cried  Eleanor,  "why  should  he  do  that?" 
Very  carefully  Major  Houghton  replied:  "Well, 
you  see,  that's  modern  war.    The  men  in  the  second 

356 


«  PROCLAMATIONS  °£ 


line  have  instructions  to  shoot  the  first  line  if  it  tries 
to  bolt.  The  third  line  does  that  to  the  second  line. 
The  R.  F.  A.  is  kept  in  place  by  machine-guns. 
Behind  these  we  put  the  R.  G.  A.,  which'll  shell 
'em  if  they  move.  And  so  on  right  down  to  the  base. 
And  of  course  the  base  doesn't  move  because  they're 
out  of  range.  So  they  don't  need  watching,  and 
when  there's  a  show  on  everybody  goes  ahead  like 
smoke." 

"  You're  making  fun  of  me/'  said  Eleanor,  for 
Janet  had  begun  to  laugh.  "You  know  quite  well 
you  want  to  go  back  like  the  others,  because  you'd 
be  unhappy  if  you  didn't." 

"I  should  try  to  bear  up,"  said  Houghton. 

Eleanor  was  much  annoyed;  she  disliked  chaff 
because  she  was  not  quite  sure  what  was  chaff  and 
what  wasn't.  So  she  ended  by  quarreling  with 
Houghton,  who  saw  nothing  tragic  in  the  royal 
family  having  adopted  the  name  of  Windsor. 

"Everybody's  doing  it,"  he  remarked,  "even  my 
Hun  bootmaker." 

"I  think  it's  tragic,"  said  Eleanor,  "it  draws  atten- 
tion.   It  makes  people  talk  of  republics." 

"Well,  let's  talk  of  republics,"  said  Houghton. 
"I'm  a  republican  just  now.  Caught  it  in  France. 
And  it's  worse  than  trench-feet;  it's  internal.  You 
know,  war  has  frightful  effects  on  your  politics:  I 
went  out  a  Conservative;  then  I  was  buried  by  a 
whizzbang,  and  they  dug  me  up  a  Radical.  Sorry, 
Lord  Buhner,  I  didn't  mean  to  offend  you;  some 
of  us  are  born  like  that.  Others  like  me  have  got 
to  rise  again.  But,  you  know,  Miss  Bulmer,  after 
catching  the  republican  microbe,  I've  lately  been 

357 


IS  CALIBAN ]8? 

kept  awake  by  a  micro-organism  called  Socialism. 
There's  no  Keatings  for  that."  Wickedly  he  began 
to  scratch  his  right  shoulder.  "  There,  I  can  feel 
it  nibbling.  When  it's  the  left  side  it's  Smillie 
at  me;  when  it's  the  right  it's  Sidney  Webb. 
Smillie,"  he  whispered,  "is  much  worse."  Then 
Eleanor  turned  an  offended  back  on  him  and  told 
the  male  elderly  relative  what  plays  he  ought  to  see 
while  he  was  in  town. 

After  lunch  Buhner  drew  closer  to  Houghton.  He 
liked  him,  because  Eleanor,  as  they  went  into  the 
drawing-room,  told  him  that  the  young  fellow  was 
either  underbred  or  had  not  recovered  from  shell- 
shock.  Houghton  was  about  thirty-two,  and  had 
just  been  given  his  majority.  He  was  short,  rather 
too  broad,  and  had  the  narrowest,  hardest  gray  eyes 
a  man  can  have.  With  these  went  close,  curly,  fair 
hair  and  an  entirely  impish  mouth.  He  suggested 
contrast,  for  he  had,  with  this  joker's  mouth,  a 
savagely  broad  jaw  and  large,  ugly  teeth.  Buhner 
found  him  difficult  to  handle,  for  Houghton  sulked 
when  one  expected  him  to  talk,  and  was  given  to 
bursts  of  oratory.  Evidently  he  was  agitated  by 
the  war,  for  he  suddenly  turned  on  Bulmer,  who 
innocently  asked  him  whether  they  didn't  want  more 

men. 

"Oh,  I'm  fed  up  with  this  cry  for  men.  All  the 
papers  shout  for  men  when  we  can't  get  enough 
plum  and  apple  to  feed  those  we've  got.  I  say  we 
want  less  men  out  there  and  more  men  making  plum 
and  apple.  Besides,  the  more  men  we  put  up  and 
the  more  men  the  Boche  puts  up,  the  more  get 
killed.    Expect  we've  killed  four  or  five  million  so 

358 


*g  PROCLAMATIONS  °g 

far,  and  the  more  we  lose  the  more  we've  got  to  put 
in.  When  everybody's  dead  we'll  have  won  the 
war,  and  I  hope  everybody'll  be  happy  wherever 
they  are." 

"Oh,  of  course  we  want  more  men,"  said  Bulmer. 

"Well,  when  they're  all  dead,  it'll  only  mean  the 
white  man's  lost  the  war  and  the  yellow  men'll  take 
over.  Then  they  and  the  black  men'll  wipe  each 
other  out,  and  what's  left  over  will  be  mopped  up 
when  science  has  progressed  so  far  that  we  can  at 
last  start  our  war  with  Mars.  When  all  the  planets 
have  rid  one  another  of  their  population  then  we'll 
have  a  general  judgment  day,  and  start  all  over 
again  with  a  brand-new  nebular  system  and  a  higher 
intelligence — that  is,  an  intelligence  which  can  kill 
more  quickly." 

As  nobody  said  anything,  a  little  shocked  by 
Houghton's  bitterness,  he  went  on:  "What's  this 
war  after  all?  General  vitality  standing  up  to 
general  vitality.  You  people  here  think  it's  soldiers 
only  win  the  war,  because  you  don't  see  'em  do  it. 
We  think  it's  the  plum  and  apples  win  the  war 
because  we  don't  see  plum  and  apples  on  the  job." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  plum  and  apples?"  said 
Bulmer. 

"I  mean  the  rest  of  you.  I  mean  the  miners  and 
the  fellows  on  the  tramp  steamers,  and  the  girls  who 
fill  shells,  and  the  kids  who  weave  khaki.  I  come 
over  here,  and  I  find  all  the  people  rooting  in  the 
funkholes,  talking  of  combing  'em  out,  and  smoking 
'em  out.  I  guess  you'll  do  it.  You'll  go  on  smoking 
out  until  there's  nobody  to  till  the  fields,  and  nobody 
to  drive  the  locomotives,  and  nobody  to  dig  pota- 

24  359 


% CALIBAN *$ 

toes.  The  papers  over  here  are  like  bad  sailors. 
They've  started  being  sick,  and  they  can't  stop. 
AJ1  they  can  do  is  to  whimper,  l  Steward,  bring 
another  basin.'" 

"But  what  do  you  want  to  do?"  asked  Buhner. 

"Oh,  get  on  with  the  job,  I  suppose.  Finish  the 
war,  anyhow,  so  that  we  can  start  getting  ready  for 
the  next.  Getting  ready's  jolly;  a  lot  of  pipe-clay, 
and  generals  riding  about  madly  in  all  directions. 
But  war!    War's  dull." 

It  was  not  until  a  fortnight  later,  when  the  phrase 
"getting  ready's  jolly,  but  war!  war's  dull,"  struck 
Buhner  as  strange  as  it  came  out  of  Janet's  mouth. 
He  suddenly  connected.  They  had  met  accidentally 
at  an  at-home,  and  for  a  moment  were  standing 
together  in  a  crowd.  He  asked,  with  apparent 
irrelevancy: 

"How  long  have  you  Known  Major  Houghton?" 

"Oh,"  said  Janet,  opening  surprised  eyes,  "about 
three  months.     His  people  know  mine." 

"How  long  is  he  going  to  be  in  England?" 

"Not  very  long,  I  believe.  His  wound's  nearly 
well.  At  least  he  told  me  that  his  last  board  said 
that  he'd  be  fit  in  a  month  or  two."  Janet  looked 
away,  and  said,  meditatively,  "He  tells  me  his  bat- 
tery has  just  sailed  for  Mesopotamia." 

After  a  moment,  during  which  Bulmer  aostractedly 
got  out  of  the  way  of  busy  young  soldiers  who  were 
balancing  ices  over  his  head,  he  looked  up,  and 
stared  at  Janet.    Then  he  said: 

"Janet,  if  I  get  a  divorce,  will  you  marry  me?" 

"What!"  said  Janet.  "For  Heaven's  sake,  Dick, 
don't  say  these  things  here." 

360 


£  PROCLAMATIONS  °% 

He  looked  about  him  vaguely.  They  were  en- 
tirely surrounded  by  people  who  felt  fat.  It  was 
very  hot,  and  the  young  soldiers  were  breaking  mer- 
cilessly in  and  out  of  the  crowd,  holding  perilously,  on 
sloping  plates,  various  articles  of  food. 

" Let's  get  out  of  this,"  said  Buhner.  " Let's  see 
if  we  can  find  a  quiet  corner."  As  this  was  a  large 
house  in  Rutland  Gate  they  went  out  on  a  terrace 
that  gave  into  a  dark  garden,  where  a  few  couples 
were  seeking  corners.  They  leaned  for  a  moment 
over  the  balustrade,  and  Buhner  observed  with  con- 
tent the  long  gracefulness  of  his  partner.  That  night 
she  wore  a  gown  made  mainly  of  white  lace.  She 
looked  very  girlish  and  pale,  with  her  slender  fore- 
arms on  the  balustrade. 

"Well,  yes,"  he  said  at  length,  "I  love  you;  I've 
told  you  before."  He  said  this  without  fervor,  as 
if  it  were  an  accepted  fact. 

As  she  did  not  reply,  he  added,  "You  know  that, 
don't  you?" 

She  nodded. 

"Well,  I've  never  asked  you  exactly.  But  you 
like  me,  don't  you?" 

She  nodded  again. 

"Eighteen  months.  You've  been  everything  to 
me."  His  voice  suddenly  grew  hoarse,  and  he 
grasped  her  bare  arm.  "And  I  love  you.  I'm  mad 
for  you.  Oh,  I  know  I'm  old.  Forty-six.  Does  it 
matter?" 

His  passion  made  him  acute.     So  he  repeated: 
That  doesn't  matter.    But  something  matters." 

She  did  not  reply. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked.    "Is  it  that  I'm  not 

361 


a 


*8  CALIBAN  ^ 

free?    Perhaps  I  could  be  free.    Supposing  I  were 
free?" 

"It's  not  that." 

"Well,  what  is  it?  Oh,  I  know  I'm  not  much. 
I  .  .  .  I've  risen." 

She  turned  quickly  toward  him,  afraid  that  he 
discerned  in  her  a  disdain  she  did  not  feel. 

"No,"  she  said,  "it's  not  that.  You  ought  to 
know  me  by  now.  I  shouldn't  care  whether  you 
were  free  or  not  if  I  were  sure  I  cared  .  .  .  well,  only 
for  you." 

"Only  for  me?"  he  repeated.  "How  do  you 
mean?" 

"Well,  one  doesn't  only  care  always  for  one  thing 
or  one  person.  You  care  for  your  newspapers  as 
much  as  you  care  for  me." 

"It's  not  true,"  he  cried,  hotly.  "I'll  .  .  .  I'll 
sink  the  lot  if  you  wish  it." 

"Would  you?"  she  said,  and  her  eyes  glowed. 
For  a  moment  Janet  was  the  eternal  mistress  who 
bids  the  painter  stab  his  picture,  the  engineer  blow 
up  his  bridge,  so  that  she  may  have  no  rival.  Almost 
she  said,  "If  you  sink  them  .  .  .  well,  do  with  me 
what  you  will."  But  instead  she  replied:  "Don't 
be  silly.  I  know  what  they  mean  to  you,  your 
papers.     They  are  you." 

"And  you  mean  they  aren't  much?  Well,  we  are 
what  we  are,  my  papers  and  I.  We  are  the  Yellow 
Press.  Ours  is  the  color  of  the  sunlight  that  lights 
up  the  dark  places.  The  Yellow  Press  is  the  un- 
afraid; it  respects  nothing,  it  fears  nothing,  it  spares 
nothing.  It  cares  for  nothing  except  for  the  pub- 
lication of  the  truth." 

362 


%  PROCLAMATIONS  *8 

"  Truth?    Always?" 

"The  truth  is  not  always  expedient.  The  mob 
can't  stand  it." 

"But  are  you  content  to  please  the  mob?" 

"I  don't  please  the  mob;  I  lead  it.  Oh,  the  mob 
isn't  so  low;  it  has  a  dim  light  in  its  mind,  like  that 
half -moon  you  see  hanging  there  over  South  Ken- 
sington. The  mob  isn't  so  bad  if  there's  somebody 
behind  it.  People  call  mob-rule  ochlocracy,  but  the 
mob  has  sense.  Anyhow,  I  don't  mind.  Any  '  cracy ' 
will  do  for  me.  In  aristocracy  I'm  strong,  and  I 
either  join  the  aristocrats  or  I  smash  them,  leading 
the  people.  In  plutocracy  I'm  rich.  In  democracy 
I  can  be  elected  if  I  choose.  In  ochlocracy  I  can 
wait  until  the  mob  wavers  and  make  myself  an 
autocrat.  Words,  all  that.  I'm  neither  aristocratic 
nor  democratic.  I'm  anycratic,  because  I  under- 
stand my  fellow-men,  because  I  can  stimulate  them 
the  right  way." 

"Dick,  are  you  sure  you  stimulate  them  the  right 
way?" 

"What  is  the  right  way?  Even  Pontius  Pilate 
didn't  know  what  was  truth.  Of  course,  he  was  a 
lawyer.  My  way's  the  right  way  because  I  believe 
in  it.  Yes,  I  know  I  interest  the  people  in  sensa- 
tion, in  murders  and  cinemas,  and  stolen  jewelry 
.  . .  but  what  else  am  I  to  interest  them  in?  Do  you 
think  you  can  interest  them  in  conchology  or  the 
use  of  globes?  Other  publications  have  tried  and 
they  have  interested  them  in  nothing.  Fifty  years 
ago  all  the  people  cared  for  was  feeble  love  and 
strong  beer.  I  woke  'em  up:  by  making  a  million 
of  them  read  about  Crippen  in  my  fifth  page,  I  got 

363 


■8  CALIBAN ji? 

a  hundred  to  read  Arnold  Bennett  in  my  fourth. 
Thanks  to  my  missing-word  competitions,  I  entice  a 
proportion  of  them  to  the  Russian  ballet.  I  get 
people  into  my  fold  by  giving  them  what  they  want, 
and  when  I've  snared  'em  in  I  make  some  of  them 
have  what  I  want.  Oh,  I  know,  you've  said  it 
before,  does  it  last?  Does  it  do  them  any  good? 
How  do  I  know?  I'm  the  man  of  the  moment;  how 
do  you  expect  me  to  be  the  man  of  all  time?  I'm 
the  mirror  of  the  times,  and  as  times  change  the 
picture  changes.  Mirrors  don't  hold  pictures;  if 
you  want  a  picture  to  stay  you'll  have  to  get  a 
damned  waxwork  from  Madam  Tussaud's.  My 
papers  freeze  life  stiff  for  the  moment.  They  solidify 
a  mood.  Why  should  a  picture  last  longer  than  a 
mood?  I  may  turn  into  ashes,  but  Cadbury  will 
turn  into  Gorgonzola.  I  may  be  bound  to  earth,  but 
that's  as  good  as  surviving  in  a  brummagem  heaven 
fitted  with  feather  wings  made  by  sweated  girls  at 
twopence  farthing  an  hour.  No,  I've  no  use  for 
pijaw.  I  teach  the  people  what  I  like,  and  I  like 
everything.  I'm  like  the  sea  that  washes  up  offal 
and  jewels.  It's  for  you  to  make  your  pick.  I  show 
you  the  present;  it's  your  job  to  fish  out  the  future. 
The  future,  what  is  it?  Only  the  present  .  .  .  more 
so.  I'm  the  future.  Round  me,  in  this  house,  there 
are  three  hundred  subjects  of  Queen  Victoria.  I'm 
a  subject  of  Edward  VIII." 

His  vehemence  shook  her.  It  was  always  the 
same  thing.  She  could  not  help  admiring  him  when 
his  mind  rode  the  torrent.  He  was  coarse;  he  was 
brutal.  She  knew  all  that.  And  a  recent  influence 
was  inclining  her  to  a  vision  of  life  richer  in  humor, 

364 


%  PROCLAMATIONS jB 

more  contemptuous  of  actuality,  more  mistily  ideal- 
istic. Just  then  she  hated  the  attraction  she  felt 
for  this  vigorous,  limited  man.  So  she  said:  "Oh, 
Dick,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  like  that.  You 
complicate  things." 

He  stared  at  her.     "I  don't  understand." 

"You're  so  interesting,  and  yet  .  .  .  you  frighten 
me." 

"How?" 

"Well,  other  people  take  life  so  differently.  They 
look  ahead.  They  criticize.  You,  you  don't  criti- 
cize.   You  take  things  as  they  are  and  print  them." 

"Other  people,"  said  Buhner,  who  had  grasped 
the  only  essential  phrase.  So,  after  a  long  pause, 
with  sudden  intuition  he  said,  "Do  you  like  Major 
Houghton?" 

"Yes."  Her  eyes  were  startled.  Never  before 
had  Buhner  shown  intuition.  It  was  terrifying.  It 
was  such  overwhelming  evidence  of  the  love  he  bore 
her.    He  went  on  with  brutal  directness. 

"Has  he  asked  you  to  marry  him?" 

"No,  of  course  not,"  she  said,  hotly.  "What 
makes  you  think  that?" 

"I  don't  know;  I'm  not  myself  to-night.  It's 
come  on  me  suddenly.  Supposing  I  lost  you?"  She 
could  not  bear  to  see  him  unhappy,  and  pressed  his 
hand.  "Don't  be  afraid,"  she  murmured,  "you 
shall  never  lose  me,  as  you  put  it,  unless  you  want 
to.  And  don't  ask  questions  about  Major  Hough- 
ton. I  like  him.  Of  course  I  like  him.  I  like  lots 
of  people." 

"Has  he  asked  you  to  marry  him?" 

"Well,  if  you  will  hurt  yourself,  I  can't  save  you 

365 


"g  CALIBAN  °S 

all  the  time.  He  has  said  that  he  will  ask  me  when 
he  comes  back  from  Mesopotamia." 

"And  what  did  you  say?" 

"I  could  not  forbid  him  to.  The  crossing-sweeper 
can  ask  me  to  marry  him  if  he  chooses." 

"You  don't  speak  of  him  as  if  he  were  a  crossing- 
sweeper."  Suddenly  he  grasped  her  by  the  elbow. 
They  were  in  the  shadow,  and  he  drew  her  into  his 
arms.     She  half  resisted. 

"Janet/'  he  murmured,  "I  can't  bear  it  any  more. 
Come  away  with  me  to-night,  never  mind  anything 
.  .  .  scandal  .  .  .  smash  everything  .  .  .  never  mind. 
You  will ...  you  will  if  you  love  me." 

For  a  moment  she  surrendered  herself,  and  he 
thought  that  she  returned  his  kiss,  but  she  freed 
herself. 

"No,  Dick,  one's  got  to  be  very  sure  of  oneself 
before  one  smashes  everything."  Before  he  could 
stop  her  she  had  run  up  the  steps.  She  went  lightly, 
and  a  silken  rustle  followed  her  for  a  moment,  then 
was  heard  no  more. 


Chapter  IX 
Ghosts 

BXJLMER  did  not  at  once  realize  that  he  might 
fail  to  gain  Janet.  The  idea  of  failure  was  un- 
familiar to  him,  and,  as  a  rule,  where  other  men 
would  have  glimpsed  defeat,  he  saw  only  difficulty. 
Hence  often  his  victories.  He  had  created  himself 
as  the  British  created  the  Empire,  by  sitting  on 
things  and  obstinately  staying  there,  however  hard 
other  people  might  push,  by  failing  to  understand, 
half  out  of  stupidity,  that  the  enemy  had  scored  a 
victory.  In  the  end  the  enemy,  weary  of  victorious 
but  fruitless  struggles,  had  given  way  and  left  the 
British  Empire  standing,  and  Bulmer  in  power. 

So  he  construed  Janet's  attitude  as  evasiveness, 
to  which  he  knew  women  were  given.  He  felt  that 
she  might  be  trying  to  rouse  his  jealousy  through 
Houghton,  and  though  he  was  surprised  that  such 
a  woman  should  so  condescend,  he  was  too  well- 
assured  that  all  women  are  alike  to  deny  her  the 
tendency  to  provoke.  He  laughed  a  little  as  he 
went  to  bed  that  night.  He  felt  secure  because, 
obviously,  he  could  not  be  beaten  by  a  twopenny 
major.  He  thought,  "So,  you're  leading  me  on!" 
and  tolerant  joy  came  over  him;  why  should  Janet 
lead  him  on  unless  she  wanted  him?    He  loved  her 

367 


"$  CALIBAN  IS 

the  more  for  this  futility,  this  childishness.  She 
was  a  real  woman,  then.  And  as  a  real  woman  she 
must  be  treated.  He  thought,  "I  must  make  you 
jealous."  Hence  his  rather  public  affair  with  Lady 
Eggington.  She  was  a  little  older  than  she  had 
been  when  at  Bargo  Court  she  gained  the  admira- 
tion of  Mr.  Felton,  but  she  was  still  creditable, 
well  known,  and  left  very  free  by  a  husband  whose 
dreams  were  filled  with  stearine  and  spermaceti. 
For  a  week  or  two  Bulmer  enjoyed  taking  her  about. 
Once,  when  they  were  riding  in  the  Row,  they  met 
Janet,  who  had  as  escort  two  naval  men,  who  rode 
very  badly,  but  rode  all  the  same,  as  is  the  way  of 
naval  men.  They  acknowledged  one  another,  and 
Bulmer  found  no  significance  in  Janet's  grave  smile. 
They  were  faintly  hostile  that  morning.  It  was 
almost  as  intimate  as  being  lovers.  But  the  meeting 
ended  the  Eggington  affair;  Bulmer  could  not  resist 
comparison,  and  as  Janet  passed,  careless,  on  her 
bay,  flushed,  the  broad-brimmed  bowler  ridging  her 
thick,  dark  hair,  so  bright,  so  dewy,  her  firm,  gaunt- 
leted  hands  held  high,  Lady  Eggington  suddenly 
suggested  the  hothouse,  the  circus.  Her  stock  was 
too  fashionable,  the  pommel  of  her  riding-crop  too 
ornate.  She  sickened  him.  He  felt  that  she  bathed 
in  eau  de  cologne;  he  wanted  his  soap-and-water 
nymph. 

But  even  so  he  maintained  his  plan.  He  was 
seeing  Janet  once  or  twice  a  week,  found  her  aloof, 
as  if  troubled,  sometimes  rebellious  when  he  tried 
to  touch  her,  sometimes,  as  if  remorseful,  inclined 
to  offer  caresses  that  hinted  at  surrender,  yet  with- 
held it.    She  disturbed  him.    She  increased  his  lone- 

868 


it 
t't 

a 


*K    GHOSTS ^ 

liness.  Once,  unable  to  bear  any  longer  his  emo- 
tional isolation,  he  dined  with  Vi,  and,  on  her  per- 
suasion, went  back  with  her  to  Finchley  to  have  a 
drink,  as  she  put  it.  He  discovered  with  surprise, 
as  he  sat  for  a  moment  in  the  drawing-room,  that  he 
liked  being  with  Vi.  The  drawing-room  was  well 
arranged;  the  lights  were  soft  and  pink-shaded.  Vi 
did  not  look  forty-nine;  being  dark,  she  had  worn 
well,  and  that  night,  by  good  fortune,  she  wore  a 
frock  of  champagne  crepe-de-chine  that  toned  in 
with  her  broad,  olive  shoulders.  After  a  time  she 
aid: 

Dick,  do  you  know  you've  never  seen  the  house." 
Why,  you're  right,  I  haven't." 
Let  me  take  you  round." 

He  followed  her,  saw  the  dining-room,  praised  the 
Cromwellian  table.  He  followed  her  up-stairs,  where 
were  various  bedrooms,  she  switching  on  the  lights 
and  he  switching  them  off.  It  was  curiously  conj  ugal, 
this  sharing  of  labor.  So  intimate  was  this  feeling 
that  he  entered  her  bedroom  without  disturbance. 
The  room  was  cerise,  still  cerise,  and  a  little  gush 
of  sentiment  invaded  him.  She  still  liked  cerise. 
At  last  he  said:  " It's  getting  late.     I  must  go." 

Vi  stood  before  him,  knotting  and  unknotting  her 
dark  hands.  Fortunately,  again,  that  night  she 
wore  no  jewels,  except  her  wedding-ring.  The  light 
was  very  faint,  and  through  her  eyelashes  he  caught 
for  a  moment  the  humid  look  that  had  drawn  him 
twenty  years  before.  The  time-machine  was  turning 
him  back  into  the  past.  So  he  said,  "You  haven't 
changed  much." 

She  smiled  at  him,  and  was  wise  enough  to  make 

369 


TB  CALIBAN  H 

no  reference  to  the  long  estrangement.  She  merely 
stood  before  him  in  woman's  most  appealing  atti- 
tude, ready  to  give,  ready  to  forgo,  as  man  might 
will.  Only  she  took  a  little  step  toward  him.  The 
thought  of  Janet  passed  through  his  brain.  He 
thought,  "If  Janet  knew!"  Then,  "Perhaps  it 
would  be  better  if  she  knew."  But  almost  at  once 
his  capacity  for  thinking  disappeared.  He  was  con- 
scious only  of  his  illusion.  He  took  Vi  in  his  arms, 
and  kissed  the  dark  lips  that  yielded  to  him  coolly. 
It  was  as  if  he  grasped  a  scented  despair;  he  was 
hers  as  he  had  never  been.  Vi  made  on  him  no  emo- 
tional demand;  she  was  physical,  obvious,  and,  in 
this  conjugal  possession,  he  abdicated.  The  heavy 
warmth  of  her  arms,  the  quick,  hard  breath  that  rose 
from  her  deep  bosom,  all  united  to  make  her  into 
abstract  woman  fit  only  for  ardor.  As  she  pressed 
her  lips  to  his  it  was  as  if  he  were  suffocated  in  a 
gas  of  incredible  sweetness. 

Yet,  two  hours  later,  as  he  lay  awake  listening  to 
the  heavy  breathing  of  his  wife,  and  stared  at  the 
panels  of  the  wardrobe  that  shone  in  the  faint  moon- 
light, he  was  conscious  of  failure. 

He  told  himself,  "It  will  be  difficult."    What  had 

he  done?    He  had  compromised  himself  .  .  .  with  his 

wife.     Could  a  man  fall  into  worse  error?    But  he 

was  practical  still,  and  told  himself:  "I've  been  a 

fool.    Only,  I  might  have  been  a  fool  with  somebody 

else,  and  it  wouldn't  have  mattered."     He  could 

still  see  his  wife's  profile.    She  lay  with  parted  lips, 

not  unbeautiful,  in  the  faint  light,  his  mate  if  they 

had  been  beasts.    He  wondered  what  dreams  passed 

under  that  low,  olive  forehead.    He  knew  that  she 

370 


%  GHOSTS  H 

did  not  content  him,  that  she  merely  satisfied  a  need 
which  she  had  not  created.  With  a  sigh  he  lifted 
the  thick,  downy  arm,  that  lay  across  him,  and, 
turning  upon  his  side,  soon  was  asleep. 

With  sudden  indiscretion,  next  day,  he  told  Janet 
what  had  happened.  It  was  as  if  he  wanted  to  pro- 
voke her,  but  he  was  angry  when  she  said: 

"Well,  why  not?  Why  don't  you  go  back  to  your 
wife?" 

"You  know  quite  well  I  can't  do  that.  Only,  if 
you  shut  me  out  of  your  life,  what  am  I  to  do?" 

"I'm  not  shutting  you  out,  but  how  can  I  take 
you  into  it  if  I'm  not  sure  that  I  want  you  there? 
Oh,  I  know  it  might  happen,  but  would  you  like 
me  to  be  the  memory  of  a  night  .  .  .  like  your 
wife?" 

"Janet!"  He  was  shocked;  then,  offense  turn- 
ing to  pain,  he  said,  "Do  you  really  think  that's 
how  I  look  upon  you?" 

"No."  She  took  his  hand,  rather  ashamed.  "I 
didn't  mean  that.  Don't  talk  about  it  any  more 
just  now." 

"Where's  Houghton?" 

"At  Bassora.  Bat  don't  talk  about  him,  or  you, 
or  me.  Must  it  be  true  that  a  man  and  a  woman 
can't  be  friends,  even  when  it's  a  man  like  you?" 

"I'm  a  man  like  any  other  man.  But  I'll  never 
stop  wanting  you." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "if  only  you  were  not  you,  how 

I  should  love  you!"    She  laughed.    "What  nonsense 

I  talk!    Of  course,  if  you  weren't  you  and  I  loved 

you  I  wouldn't  love  you." 

Bulmer  had  no  time  to  penetrate  more  deeply  the 

371 


^  CALIBAN ji? 

emotional  complexity  of  his  situation.  Already, 
that  day,  he  had  missed  a  conference.  He  told 
Janet,  and  she  said,  "Dick!  what  a  tribute." 

"It's  all  very  well,"  he  said,  "but  I  ought  to  have 
been  there." 

Indeed,  just  then,  he  was  preoccupied  by  the  re- 
sponsibilities he  had  created  for  himself.  Hating 
Mr.  Asquith,  because  his  nimbleness  automatically 
revolted  against  the  slowness  of  the  Yorkshireman, 
because  he  found  in  the  Premier  an  almost  wilful 
lack  of  imagination,  he  supported  him  as  a  Liberal 
must,  and  strove  to  supplant  him  by  Escombe.  He 
liked  Escombe.  There  was  in  the  short,  wiry  little 
Radical  barrister  something  that  appealed  to  him 
that  was  fitful  as  a  light  wind.  He  liked  Escombe's 
incapacity  to  avoid  action.  For  twenty  years  he 
had  seen  him  establish  apparently  impossible  situa- 
tions by  promising  everybody  everything  they 
wanted,  and  then,  confronted  with  the  results  of  his 
cleverness,  erect  a  series  of  bogies,  demonstrate  to 
the  holders  of  his  pledges  that  only  for  their  good 
was  he  breaking  those  pledges.  The  sight  of  Escombe 
was  pleasant  to  him;  the  broad  forehead,  about 
which  the  black  hair,  spattered  with  gray,  stuck  out 
in  wisps  useful  to  Bernard  Partridge  and  F.  C.  G., 
the  irregular,  pugnacious  nose,  the  evasive  chin,  and 
faintly  amused  mouth  under  the  heavy  mustache. 
He  often  talked  with  Escombe,  and  always  came  out 
soothed  and  flattered,  for  the  gray  eyes,  rather  with- 
drawn beyond  the  pocketed  eyelids  and  the  close- 
hanging,  heavy  brows,  always  conveyed  to  him, 
"  Lord  Bulmer,  I  couldn't  do  without  you."  Bulmer 
never  suspected  that  everybody  who  met  Escombe, 

372 


■g  GHOSTS  **? 

whether  peer  or  labor  leader,  felt  the  same  thing. 
He  had  not  enough  subtlety  to  understand  the  sub- 
tlety of  Escombe,  and  whenever  he  went  to  the 
Minister,  demanding  that  this  or  that  should  be 
done,  he  found  when  he  came  out  that  something 
else  had  been  done,  which  looked  exactly  like  his 
original  proposal,  but  was  in  some  intangible  manner 
different.  Buhner  bullied  people  into  things;  Es- 
combe tripped  them  into  things.  Sometimes  Buhner 
wondered  whether  he  was  being  wangled,  as,  for 
instance,  in  the  matter  of  war  economy  and  the 
import  trade.  Being  a  simple  man,  he  tried  to  ex- 
plain to  Escombe  that  if  we  went  on  importing  com- 
modities we  must  pay  for  them;  therefore  we  must 
spend  money ;  therefore  we  could  not  practise  econ- 
omy.   But  Escombe  said: 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,  my  dear  Bulmer.  You 
put  it  with  a  lucidity  that  is  unfortunately  rare  now- 
adays. Only,  you  see,  failing  imports  you  cannot 
export;  failing  exports  you  make  no  profits.  Fail- 
ing profits  you  have  nothing  to  economize  with. 
Therefore,  the  more  you  import  the  more  you  ex- 
port, the  more  profits  you  make.  Therefore,  the 
more  you  spend  the  more  you  have.  That,  I  take 
it,  is  your  meaning?" 

"Not  exactly,"  said  Bulmer,  puzzled. 

"Forgive  me  if  I  have  misunderstood  you,"  said 
Escombe,  "I'm  only  trying  to  give  a  practical 
form  to  your  views,  with  which  I  wholly  sympa- 
thize. I  take  it  that  you  want  to  press  for  facilities 
for  free  imports,  do  you  not?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Bulmer,  "I'm  a  Free  Trader." 

"Good.    So  am  I.    I  always  was.    Therefore  you 

373 


&  CALIBAN  "$ 

will  continue  to  preach  reduction  of  expenditure? 
I  shall  be  speaking  on  it  to-morrow  at  Bradford." 

Bulmer  went  out  a  little  later,  entirely  unable  to 
understand  what  had  happened.  Escombe  seemed 
not  only  to  have  committed  him  to  two  opposite 
views,  but  to  have  convinced  him  that  he  held  both. 
Escombe  had  contributed  nothing  to  the  conversa- 
tion. He  seemed  merely  to  elucidate  what  Bulmer 
meant.  In  the  end,  Bulmer  ceased  to  try  to  under- 
stand Escombe's  policy.  He  even  ceased  to  rebel. 
Hitting  Escombe's  policy  was  like  hitting  butter; 
it  gave  way  to  the  fist,  and  closed  round  it  in  an 
affectionate  grasp. 

So  he  went  on,  the  old  life  of  one  exciting  thing 
after  another  being  converted  into  one  exciting  cam- 
paign after  another.  New  men  outlined  themselves 
on  his  stormy  horizon,  and  were  overwhelmed  by 
the  next  squall.  For  six  weeks  Sir  Benjamin  Martin 
was  described  as  a  skilful  municipal  administrator 
and  made  Materials  Controller.  Then  it  was  dis- 
covered that  all  materials  were  already  controlled, 
and  that  Sir  Benjamin's  principal  function  was  to 
interpose  another  week's  delay  between  the  pro- 
ducer and  the  consumer.  Also,  his  intervention 
caused  materials  completely  to  disappear.  He  dis- 
appeared, too,  and  Rob  made  a  cartoon  of  his  funeral, 
where  the  Cabinet  was  represented  as  mourners 
with  tall  hats  tied  with  weepers  of  red  tape.  The 
war  went  on,  and  Bulmer  enjoyed  it.  He  met  Cleve- 
don,  the  young  war  painter,  an  ex-Cubist,  who  had 
discovered  that  the  vision  of  the  times  is  the  world 
seen  from  an  airplane.    Clevedon  was  given  a  Daily 

Gazette  one-man  show.     Life  was  filled  with  inter- 

374 


■g  GHOSTS jB 

views,  with  the  rise  and  fall  of  reputations,  and  meet- 
ings were  held  at  Upper  Brook  Street,  copies  of  the 
minutes  being  then  sent  through  the  usual  route  as 
peremptory  advice  to  the  Cabinet. 

Early  in  January,  1917,  about  two  hours  after  the 
"all  clear,"  Bulmer  woke  to  the  persistent  ringing 
of  thq  telephone  by  his  bedside.  He  did  not  reply 
for  a  moment.  Then,  quietly,  "Yes,  of  course  it's 
a  great  shock."  Then  again,  "Oh,  of  course,  of 
course." 

"My  poor  Dick,"  said  Janet,  a  few  hours  later, 
putting  an  arm  round  his  shoulders  with  sisterly 
affection,  "Of  course  I  know  .  .  .  but  still,  after  so 
many  years  ..." 

"Oh,  don't  let's  be  sentimental,"  said  Bulmer, 
who  shook  himself  free  and  walked  about  the  room. 
"I  don't  say  that  if  I  could  have  prevented  it  I 
wouldn't  have  done  so,  but  when  there's  an  air  raid 
some  people  must  be  killed." 

"Dick,"  said  Janet,  after  a  moment,  as  she  picked 
up  The  Day,  which  was  lying  on  an  arm-chair,  "do 
you  think  you  need  have  made  so  much  of  it  in  the 
paper?" 

"What's  the  matter  with  it?  Death  of  Lady 
Bulmer.  Little  biographic  notice.  What  else  could 
the  paper  do?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  say.     Still..." 

Janet  did  not  like  to  explain  to  the  presumably 
stricken  husband,  notoriously  separated  from  his 
wife,  that  it  might  have  been  in  better  taste  to  avoid 
such  detailed  references  to  her. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.     I'm  pretty  well 
known.     Supposing  it'd  been  Lady  Northcliffe  had 
25  375 


°g  CALIBAN  H 

been  killed  in  an  air  raid,  do  you  think  there' d  have 
been  nothing  about  it  in  the  papers?" 

"You  don't  understand/'  said  Janet. 

"No,  I  don't.     It's  news." 

She  smiled.  "Oh,  Dick,  you're  incorrigible."  En- 
couraged by  her  smile  he  snatched  her  hand. 
"Janet,"  he  whispered,  "perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  say 
so  just  yet,  before  .  .  .  before  she's  buried,  bat  I'm 
free.     I  know  I  ought  not  to  say  it  now." 

"Oh,  don't  be  ridiculous,"  she  replied,  "you're 
being  conventional.  You  didn't  mind  making  love 
to  me  when  your  wife  was  alive,  and  I  suppose  you 
won't  mind  doing  it  after  the  funeral.  Why  should 
you  sacrifice  three  days  as  a  decent  interval?" 

She  puzzled  him,  but  he  did  not  release  her,  and 
merely  repeated: 

"  I'm  free.  In  a  few  days  I'll  come  to  you,  and  then 
you'll  have  to  answer  me.  Oh,  I  know  there  are 
things  you  don't  like  in  me,  but  what's  the  use  of 
liking  everything  in  people?  There's  no  merit  in 
loving  if  one  does  that." 

"Dick,"  she  cried,  opening  her  eyes  very  wide, 
"you're  getting  subtle."  She  laughed,  "I've  said 
that  before,  the  first  time  we  met." 

"One  gets  all  sorts  of  funny  ideas  when  one's  in 
love.  I'd  do  anything  in  the  world  for  you.  Oh, 
I  know  I'm  not  much.  I'm  like  my  papers.  My 
papers  and  I,  we  appeal  to  the  lowest  people  because 
there  are  more  of  'em.  But  what's  low?  What's 
high?  You  don't  know.  Standing  here  in  London 
we  think  Australia's  under  our  feet.  But  the  Aus- 
tralians think  it's  we  are  under  theirs.    When  I  want 

a  feature,  or  a  placard,  I  put  up  the  heat  wave,  or 

376 


Tg  GHOSTS jE 

the  holiday  exodus,  or  get  up  a  beauty  competition, 
or  I  print  the  story  of  her  life  by  a  woman  who's  had 
seven  husbands.  You  call  that  low,  I  suppose.  But 
what  do  you  think  would  happen  if  you  put  on  my 
placard,  'Redemption  of  the  Floating  Debt'?  Or, 
'Startling  Ornithological  Discovery?'  If  I  did  that 
I'd  be  appealing,  not  to  the  high,  but  to  the  high- 
brow. I'm  a  second-rate  man.  He  cuts  more  ice 
than  the  first-rate  man.  He's  like  Napoleon,  nearer 
to  the  earth,  nearer  to  the  common  people.  When 
I  print  paragraphs  about  the  cinema,  or  the  price  of 
season  tickets,  or  a  clear  statement  on  the  difference 
between  wistaria  and  hysteria,  when  I  interest  in  a 
single  issue  the  Wigan  office-boy  on  his  way  to  the 
football  ground  and  the  suburban  baby  in  its  pram, 
I  feel  like  the  old  ravens  that  brought  his  morning 
eggs  and  bacon  to  Elias,  or  Elijah,  or  what's  his 
name.  William  Whiteley  doesn't  get  beyond  things 
you  can  eat  and  things  you  can  wear.  I'm  the  uni- 
versal provider  of  human  interest.  I  can't  help 
human  interest  being  what  it  is." 

"I  won't  argue  with  you,"  said  Janet.  "You 
always  seem  right,  and  somehow  that  always  con- 
vinces me  you're  wrong.     Things  are  not  what  they 


seem." 


"That's  where  you're  wrong.  Things  are  what 
they  seem.  And,  anyhow,  what's  it  matter  what 
they  are  if  they  don't  seem  it?  You'll  never  know. 
But  don't  let's  bother  about  that.  I  can  only  think 
of  one  thing,  and  that's  you."  He  tried  to  take  her 
in  his  arms. 

"No,  please  don't,  Dick.  Not  now.  I'm  too  miser- 
able." 

377 


T8  CALIBAN  H 


u What's  troubling  you?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;  the  war  and  that  sort  of  thing. 
Here  we  are,  1917,  and  it  may  last  years.  I'm  so 
tired  of  it." 

"Tired  of  it?"  asked  Bulmer.  "What  do  you 
mean?  " 

"I'm  war- weary." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Bulmer.  "The  war's  got  to  be 
won,  so  how  can  anybody  be  tired  of  it?  I  never 
met  anybody  who  was  war- weary." 

She  smiled.  "That's  because  you  aren't  war- 
weary  yourself.    You  believe  everybody's  like  you." 

He  was  not  listening.  "Janet,"  he  said  again, 
"we're  talking  of  all  sorts  of  things  except  the  only 
one  that  matters.  Tell  me?  Do  you  care  for  any- 
body else?" 

"No,"  she  replied,  and  was  honest,  though  her 
eyes  seemed  shifty. 

"You  haven't  promised  Houghton?" 

"He's  in  Mesopotamia." 

"You  aren't  answering  me." 

"No,  I  haven't  promised  him  any  more  than  you. 
But  I  won't  be  badgered.  Let  me  go."  She  released 
herself. 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Bulmer. 

And  he  seemed  so  sad  that  she  almost  answered 
him,  then  hesitated,  and  he  went  away. 


Chapter  X 
The  Cruise  of  the  "Gazetteer" 

AT  breakfast,  a  certain  amusement  mixed  with 
/*  Janet's  preoccupation.  Jack,  now  nearly  five, 
was  rather  troublesome,  and  disturbed  her  medita- 
tions. From  time  to  time  he  remarked,  "May  I 
have  a  bit  of  sugar?  "  Then,  on  being  told  that  there 
was  a  war  on,  and  therefore  only  one  bit  for  every 
cup,  he  delivered  pronouncements. 

"I'm  tired  of  the  war.  When  there's  a  war  one 
can't  get  sugar.  I  like  sugar.  I  don't  like  war. 
When  the  war's  over  I'll  have  as  much  sugar  as  I  like." 

" Don't  talk  so  much/'  said  Janet. 

"I'm  only  talking  to  myself,  Mummie.  Mummie, 
may  I  have  another  bit  of  sugar?"  (Gloomily): 
"No,  I  suppose  one  can't  have  sugar  when  there's 
a  war  on.     But  I  do  like  sugar." 

"You'll  have  breakfast  in  the  nursery  if  you  don't 
stop  talking,"  said  Janet.  She  went  on  with  her 
breakfast,  smiling  now  and  then  to  herself  and  occa- 
sionally suppressing  Jack,  who  maintained  a  mnning 
undertone : 

"Cook  says  eggs  are  sixpence  each.  She  says  that 
milk  is  going  to  be  sixpence  a  quart.  I  wonder 
which  is  nicest,  an  egg  or  a  quart  of  milk?  "  ^Loudly) : 
"Mummie,  what's  a  quart?" 

"A  quart  is  twice  a  pint,  Jack,  and  a  pint  is  twice 

w  379 


«  CALIBAN 


a  glass.  And  there's  one  glass  extra  in  a  quart. 
Now,"  added  Janet,  subtly,  "you  just  try  and  think 
how  many  glasses  go  to  the  quart."  With  a  grin  of 
triumph  she  went  on  with  her  breakfast,  and  Jack 
said  not  another  word;  to  the  end  he  underwent  the 
most  horrible  mathematical  convulsions. 

After  receiving  a  kiss  made  adhesive  by  egg  and 
marmalade,  Jack  was  removed  by  his  nurse,  to  whom 
he  vainly  put  problems  regarding  quarts  and  glasses 
of  milk,  while  Janet  once  more  took  up  the  Daily 
Gazette.  She  was  smiling.  Really,  Dick  was  delight- 
ful and  absurd.  One  couldn't  be  angry  with  him. 
Could  one  love  him?  She  considered  for  a  moment. 
She  felt  fit  to  understand  her  own  destiny;  cold- 
bathed,  well-exercised  by  an  hour  in  the  Row,  suffi- 
ciently fed,  her  body  clad  in  pleasantly  fitting  clothes, 
she  was  released.  Her  mind  was  free,  and  she 
thought,  "What  am  I  going  to  do?"  She  felt  to- 
gether young  and  old;  young  in  experience,  old  in 
perplexity.  She  thought:  "I  suppose  I  can't  go  on 
like  this  forever.  I'm  twenty-nine,  and  one  can  only 
go  on  forever  if  one's  sixty.  At  twenty-nine  things 
have  got  to  change."  She  looked  about  her  at  this 
comfortably  furnished  dining-room  that  represented 
her  so  well;  bowler  and  riding-crop  flung  on  the 
couch,  bookcase  crowded  with  books.  There  were  a 
number  of  novels  by  Hewlett,  Hardy,  and  Bennett, 
an  intellectual  conglomerate  which  represented  her 
fairly  well.  She  had  Shaw's  collected  plays,  also  the 
plays  of  Galsworthy  and  Barker;  many  essays  by 
Chesterton  and  Lucas;  with  these,  unexpected  con- 
trasts: Thorold  Rogers  and  Lord  Acton,  Anatole 
France  almost  complete,  and  Marius  the  Epicurean. 

380 


*8  CRUISE  OF  THE  "GAZETTEER"  *» 

No  poetry.  Catholicity  and  chaos.  Open-minded- 
ness  and  uncertainty. 

She  thought:  "Married  too  early.  I  suppose  a 
mother  too  early,  and  some  would  say  widowed  too 
early.  But  they  didn't  know  my  husband.  What 
a  beast  I  am!  I  oughtn't  to  think  that.  But,  after 
all,  that's  past;  what  next?  I  could  become  older, 
and  sweeter,  and  more  motherly,  and  be  anxious 
when  Jack  gets  the  measles,  and  buy  his  boots  when 
he  goes  to  school.  And  then  he'll  go  to  Osborne  and 
sail  away.  Or  to  South  Kensington,  and  become  an 
engineer,  and  go  away.  Or  to  anywhere  else,  and 
marry  somebody  else  and  go  away.  And  I'll  be 
thirty,  and  I'll  be  forty.  And  I  may  be  a  lot  more; 
my  people  die  hard."  She  sighed,  and  her  thoughts 
grew  irrelevant :  "Missing!  Why  don't  I  feel  worse 
about  it?  Just  one  line  missing.  Houghton,  Charles, 
Maj.  R.F.A.  And  in  Mesopotamia!  Dead  or  a 
prisoner  of  the  Turks!" 

She  wondered  why  she  did  not  cry,  why  she  could 
recall  the  moment  when  Houghton  had  practically 
declared  himself,  and  when  by  tacit  agreement  they 
had  decided  to  speak  no  more  of  their  community 
until  the  war  was  done.  With  a  certain  surprise 
she  asked  herself :  "  Is  it  Dick?  Would  I  love  Charlie 
if  I  didn't  love  Dick?"  And  her  horrible  clarity  of 
mind  made  her  add,  "Would  I  love  Dick  if  I  didn't 
love  Charlie?"  She  wondered  if  woman  was  ever 
so  rent  by  twin  and  equal  passions.  It  was  so  diffi- 
cult to  resist  Dick!  This  last  affair!  Well,  really i 
She  took  up  the  Daily  Gazette  again  and  decided  to 
read  the  whole  account.  It  ran  as  follows,  under 
enormous  head- lines: 

381 


°&  CALIBAN 


CRUISE  OF  THE  GAZETTEER 

GERMAN  CRUISER  TORPEDOED  BY   DAILY   GAZETTE 

SUBMARINE 

FULL  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  MOST  DARING  EXPLOIT 
OF  THE  WAR 

By  Lord  Bulmer 

On  the  5th  of  March,  1917,  at  6.30  p.m.,  one  of  the  most  power- 
ful engines  of  destruction  devised  by  the  most  cunning  brains 
in  the  service  of  the  Kaiser  was  sent  to  its  reckoning.  The 
cruiser  Wurzburg,  of  which  full  technical  description,  plan,  and 
picture  will  be  found  on  page  six,  and  of  which  it  is  enough  to 
say  that  she  was  of  22,000  tons  burden,  was  launched  only  last 
December,  and  was  capable  of  developing  a  speed  of  37  knots, 
has  been  sunk  by  the  Daily  Gazette. 

It  had  too  long  been  apparent  to  me  that  the  condition  of 
naval  stalemate  which  prevailed  in  the  North  Sea  should  not 
prove  insuperable  to  audacity  combined  with  ingenuity.  There- 
fore, anxious  to  arouse  the  British  Admiralty  from  its  profound 
slumbers,  I  determined  to  demonstrate  by  action  that  German 
patrol  boats,  German  mine-fields,  and  German  watchfulness 
could  be  made  unavailing  by  intellect  and  courage.  I  have  run 
the  German  blockade;  is  the  Admiralty  too  blind,  as  well  as 
too  sleepy,  to  take  a  leaf  from  my  book? 

Then  followed  an  amazing  story.  It  appeared 
that  at  the  end  of  1916  information  came  to  Bulmer 
which  gave,  more  or  less  clearly,  the  position  of  the 
German  mine-fields  protecting  Hamburg  and  Kiel. 
After  considering  whether  he  should  hand  this  over 
to  the  Admiralty,  he  was  held  back  by  the  memory 
of  previous  communications — the  Admiralty  always 
promised  to  give  the  matter  their  attention  and 

382 


*g  CRUISE  OF  THE  " GAZETTEER"  « 

never  did  so.  He  therefore  decided  to  make  use  of 
the  information  himself,  and  to  become  a  belligerent. 
He  first  attempted  to  purchase  a  submarine,  but 
this  proved  impossible,  partly  because  the  request 
for  a  license  would  either  have  been  refused  or 
would  have  exposed  his  plans,  partly  because  the 
vessel  would  have  been  stopped  in  the  North  Sea 
by  the  British  patrols.  The  Daily  Gazette  group 
therefore  decided  themselves  to  go  into  the  business 
of  ship-building,  and  a  complete  naval  yard  was 
purchased  from  a  Dutch  firm  on  the  Zuyder  Zee. 
There  the  Gazetteer  was  built,  fitted  with  four  tor- 
pedo tubes,  provided  with  an  American  crew,  headed 
by  an  expert  American  officer  called  Captain  Antro- 
bus.  Then,  laden  with  stores,  her  bunkers  full  of 
oil,  stimulated  by  the  promise  of  five  thousand 
pounds  for  the  captain  and  five  hundred  pounds  for 
every  man,  the  Gazetteer  set  out. 

Captain  Antrobus  told  his  story  with  a  sufficient 
journalistic  touch.  He  took  three  days  to  reach 
Cuxhaven,  for  he  was  first  of  all  chased  by  a  Dutch 
destroyer,  who  had  caught  the  Gazetteer  in  territorial 
waters.  But  Captain  Antrobus  submerged  off  Texel 
and,  coolly  doubling,  passed  under  his  pursuer's  keel. 
Emerging,  he  skirted  the  Dutch  coast,  and,  having 
made  up  as  U-73,  which  Bulmer  knew  to  be  overdue, 
the  Gazetteer  was  not  molested  by  some  German 
scouts.  But  the  mine-fields  proved  a  terrible 
business. 

"Much  to  my  disappointment/'  wrote  Captain 
Antrobus,  "I  found  that  the  chart  with  which  I 
had  been  provided  was  either  inaccurate  or  out  of 
date.    On  approaching  the  commercial  channel  which 

383 


•8 CALIBAN ]B 

I  expected  to  find  in  the  mine-field,  I  nearly  ran  into 
a  chain  of  anchored  mines.  It  was  then  seven  o' clock 
and  beginning  to  grow  dark.  To  hesitate  was  im- 
possible, as  this  would  have  meant  going  back  to 
our  starting-point.  I  therefore  decided  to  dive  under 
the  mines.  At  7.30  we  submerged,  and,  making  for 
the  bottom,  fortunately  discovered  that  the  mines 
were  laid  across  a  sand-bank,  the  contact  of  which 
was  not  likely  to  damage  the  hull.  I  therefore  pro- 
gressed about  four  hundred  yards,  at  about  four 
knots.  At  7.22  I  encountered  an  obstruction.  This 
turned  out  to  be  an  entanglement  of  wire  hawsers, 
from  which  it  is  evident  that  the  Germans  had 
learned  something  from  Holbrook's  dive  under  the 
Dardanelles  mine-field.  I  therefore  returned  to  the 
surface  and  found  myself,  at  7.55,  once  more  opposite 
what  I  assumed  to  be  the  mine-field,  which  I  skirted 
until  8.30  without  finding  a  channel. 

"  At  this  stage  I  realized  that  the  only  thing  to  do 
was  to  take  my  chance  and  sail  straight  through  the 
mine-field.     This  I  did  without  mishap,  though  of 
course  progress  had  to  be  slow.     I  reached  safe 
waters  at  dawn,  only  to  find  myself  confronted  by 
five  German  destroyers,  who  promptly  opened  fire. 
To  stay  in  this  neighborhood  would  have  been  fatal, 
as  this  would  have  invited  the  dropping  of  depth- 
charges.    I  therefore  submerged,  and,  xoorking  my  way 
back  to  the  mine-field,  made  for  the  bottom.    I  felt 
assured  that  the  destroyers  would  not  drop  depth- 
charges  there,  as  they  would  not  want  to  detonate 
their  own  mine-field,  and  would  assume  that  if  I 
went  near  it  I  should  be  destroyed." 

Janet  knew  by  now  enough  about  war  to  realize 

384 


°£  CRUISE  OF  THE  " GAZETTEER"  15 

why  these  words  were  printed  in  italics.  The  in- 
credible gallantry  of  this  move  thrilled  her.  She 
had  a  vision  of  the  Gazetteer  slowly  sinking  down 
through  the  mine-strewn  water,  taking  its  chance 
of  escaping  contact  with  the  mines,  and  at  last 
resting  upon  the  sand,  surrounded  backward,  for- 
ward, right  and  left,  and  above,  by  great  round 
objects  which  to  touch  was  destruction. 

Then  it  seemed  that,  after  six  hours,  with  infinite 
care,  Captain  Antrobus  emerged,  taking  his  chance 
of  the  mines,  and,  by  a  stroke  of  luck,  he  found  the 
gate  open,  presumably  because  a  vessel  was  about 
to  leave  the  harbor.  He  reached  the  Cuxhaven  booms 
just  before  dark,  passed  unobserved  under  the  stern 
of  the  guardship,  and  discharged  four  torpedoes, 
of  which  one  was  seen  to  take  effect  on  the  Wurzburg, 
while  the  other  three  went  wide. 

"In  less  than  thirty  seconds,"  said  Captain  Antro- 
bus, "the  whole  port  was  blazing  with  light.  Vereys 
and  blue  lights  went  up  from,  I  think,  thirty  or 
forty  vessels,  and  a  number  of  searchlights  were 
turned  on  us,  fortunately  missing  us,  thanks  to  the 
proximity  of  a  pillar-buoy  which  was  evidently  taken 
for  our  periscope,  and  in  a  few  seconds  was  smoth- 
ered in  a  hail  of  shells." 

Apparently,  in  the  disorder,  the  guardship,  in- 
stead of  maintaining  her  nose  toward  the  booms, 
turned  slightly  as  if  to  block  the  fairway.  During 
this  maneuver  the  Gazetteer  slipped  past  her,  and 
within  four  hours  reached  the  mine-field.  She  went 
through  as  before,  taking  her  chance. 

"I  thought  I  was  safe,"  said  Captain  Antrobus, 
"and  I  should  have  been  if  I  had  not  been  picked 

385 


*g  CALIBAN  « 


up  by  four  seaplanes,  who  proceeded  to  drop  bombs, 
but  the  water  proving  opaque,  they  lost  track  of  me, 
and  I  suffered  no  damage.  Still,  I  thought  it  advis- 
able to  double  back  to  the  mine-field,  where  I  lay 
submerged  for  four  hours  in  what  might  be  called  a 
slightly  delicate  situation.  As,  however,  on  sub- 
merging, I  took  the  not  unreasonable  risk  of  opening 
one  of  my  oil-tanks,  the  German  seaplanes  presum- 
ably concluded  that  one  of  the  bombs  must  have 
taken  effect,  for  the  stain  of  oil  which  formed  in  the 
vicinity  still  persisted  when  I  came  up.  Indeed,  the 
seaplanes  had  disappeared.  For  the  rest  it  was  a 
good  journey.  My  foreman  artificer  informed  me 
that,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  had  avoided 
seasickness." 

Janet  put  down  the  paper,  and  laughed  aloud. 
Of  course  Buhner  was  making  the  most  of  the  affair 
in  typical  Bulmer  fashion;  the  life  history  and  ex- 
perience of  Captain  Antrobus  filled  a  column;  his 
second  in  command  was  likewise  treated.  There 
were  pictures  of  the  sheds  where  the  Gazetteer  was 
built;  the  eighth  page  was  filled  with  photographs 
of  members  of  the  crew,  of  the  Gazetteer  emerging, 
of  plans  and  sections  of  the  submarine,  and  its  vic- 
tim, the  Wurzburg.  There  was  even  a  photograph 
of  the  statement  issued  on  the  subject  by  the  German 
Admiralty.  This  statement  declared  that  the  Wurz- 
burg had  been  blown  up  by  an  internal  explosion, 
but  the  Daily  Gazette  photographer  had  snapped  the 
sinking  ship  by  means  of  the  Germans'  own  search- 
lights, which  also  showed  on  a  warehouse  the  words, 
Allgemeine  Elektrizitaets  Gesellschaft.  The  evidence 
was  absolute.    The  audacity  of  it!    In  that  moment 

386 


j?  CRUISE  OF  THE  "GAZETTEER"  jg 

Janet  did  not  consider  the  gallantry  of  Captain 
Antrobus  and  his  crew.  The  affair  struck  her  as 
eventually  it  struck  London;  it  seemed  a  delicious 
piece  of  cheek.  The  impression  was  maintained 
through  the  next  two  days.  Embarrassing  questions 
were  asked  in  Parliament,  and  the  First  Lord  had 
great  difficulty  in  maintaining  a  dignified  front, 
when  persistently  questioned  by  Mr.  Pemberton 
Billing,  who  wanted  to  know  why  the  Admiralty 
hadn't  done  this  long  ago.  The  First  Lord  repelled 
every  question  by  stating  that  a  reply  would  not  be 
in  the  public  interest,  but  grew  uncomfortably  hot. 
As  for  the  Attorney-General,  he  was  persecuted  with 
requests  to  prosecute  Buhner  the  buccaneer  as  a 
filibuster.  He,  too,  was  much  annoyed,  for  he  would 
have  liked  to  hang  Buhner,  and  when  the  irrepressible 
journalist  printed  an  article  in  The  Day,  demanding 
the  resignation  of  the  First  Lord  because  he  had 
neglected  his  duty  by  leaving  his  work  to  be  done 
by  a  civilian,  and  declared  that  in  future  he  would 
call  himself  Lord  Buhner  of  Wurzburg,  the  Admiralty 
decided  that  it  must  do  something.  So  it  attempted 
a  seaplane  raid  on  Emden,  from  which  only  one 
'plane  returned.  Then  Buhner  printed  a  leaded  para- 
graph, on  which  he  elaborated. 

"  I  go  out  alone  and  I  sink  a  cruiser.  The  Admiralty 
sends  sixteen  'planes  and  loses  the  lot."  Finally  the 
government  adopted  the  victory.  Captain  Antrobus 
was  personally  congratulated  by  the  First  Lord, 
given  the  C.M.G.,  and  told  that  he  would  always 
be  welcome  in  England.  After  all,  it  was  impossible 
to  hang  him.  Buhner  was  very  happy.  He  gave  his 
staff  a  week's  pay  and  presented  to  their  children 

387 


*g  CALIBAN  *8 


a  silver  mug  inscribed,  "Wurzburg,  5th  March, 
1917."  The  only  thing  that  annoyed  him  was  that 
Janet  was  inclined  to  laugh. 

"I  don't  see  the  joke,"  he  said,  aggrieved.  "If 
ten  people  did  as  much  as  I  have  the  war  wouldn't 
last  long." 

"Dick,"  she  said,  "as  usual,  you're  incorrigible." 
And  wondered  whether  one  could  love  a  child  of 
forty-seven  in  any  way  except  as  a  child.  He  was, 
she  realized,  not  grown  up,  and  it  was  perhaps  this 
need  for  a  protective  mind  held  her  away  from  him 
and  fastened  her  to  the  tragic  memory  of  Charles 
Houghton,  humorous,  ironic,  and  perfectly  ripe  in 
spite  of  his  youth.  Perhaps,  because  now  Houghton 
was  dumb,  she  felt  that  she  must  give  herself  to  him. 
She  hated  her  own  femininity,  which  bade  her  turn 
away  from  the  tangible  to  the  fictitious.  She 
thought:  "Why  am  I  like  this?  Dick  loves  me.  In 
his  way  he's  a  great  man,  audacious,  original,  ruth- 
less, direct.  He  annoys  me  because  he  lacks  finesse. 
I'm  a  fool;  one  asks  finesse  of  a  razor,  not  of  a  sledge- 
hammer." Then  she  thought  of  Houghton,  dying 
of  thirst,  perhaps,  in  a  sandy  ravine,  and  tears  came 
to  her  eyes.  She  wept,  then,  as  she  thought  of  his 
thirst  in  that  golden  sand,  under  a  scarlet  sun  flam- 
ing in  a  purple  sky,  and,  as  she  wiped  her  eyes,  she 
thought  that  to  slake  that  thirst  she  would  weep 
every  tear  of  her  body. 


Chapter  XI 
Power 

THE  uncertainty  of  Janet's  attitude  wrought  in 
Buhner  a  certain  despair.  Opposition  he  could 
meet;  surrender  he  could  take;  uncertainty  was 
something  he  could  not  understand  and  against  which 
he  was  not  armed.  And  his  passion  made  him 
shrewd;  he  understood  that  pressure  might  lose  his 
success,  just  as  might  negligence,  so  he  abandoned 
the  affair  vaguely  begun  with  Lady  Eggington,  to 
make  Janet  jealous.  He  even  revised,  his  codes  and 
reflected:  "With  another  sort  of  woman  that  might 
work.  But  somehow  I  don't  think  it'd  move  her." 
He  was  learning  about  women,  and  now  had  enough 
wisdom  to  remain  inactive.  A  conversation  with  a 
worldling  almost  led  him  to  excess,  for  the  world- 
ling, met  in  a  club,  joined  his  finger-tips  and  said: 
"Women  are  like  cats.  If  you  move  toward  them 
they  run  away,  but  if  you  sit  there  and  say,  'Puss, 
puss,  puss/  and  put  a  saucer  of  milk  on  the  floor,  in 
due  course  they  will  be  moved  by  curiosity  to  come 
and  see  what  there  is  in  the  saucer.  Then,  click! 
you've  got  the  cat  by  the  back  of  the  neck,  so  that 
it  can't  scratch  you.  When  the  cat  has  struggled 
enough  and  discovered  that  she  can't  get  away,  and 
been  tickled  behind  the  ear,  she'll  sit  on  your  lap 
and  purr.    And  then,  ah,  then  you  no  longer  need 

389 


*g  CALIBAN  ^ 

say,  'Puss,  puss,  puss!'  You  can  say,  'You  damn 
cat!'  and  she'll  go  on  sitting  there,  purring." 

"The  trouble  is,"  thought  Buhner,  "that  I  don't 
know  what  sort  of  milk  to  put  into  the  saucer."  So 
far  he  had  offered  rank,  wealth,  and  passionate  love, 
and  Janet  had  circled  about  him,  not  hostile,  but 
troubled  and  doubtful.  He  tried  treating  her  as  a 
friend,  with  a  blufTness  that  did  not  fit  him,  because 
he  was  not  born  in  the  bluff  class.  She  fixed  large, 
round  eyes  on  him,  and  realized  that  he  adopted 
manners  in  the  same  way  as  his  newspapers  adopted 
stunts.  At  last  inaction  became  tedious,  and  once 
more  he  asked  her  to  marry  him. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't,  Dick,"  she  replied.  "If  I 
could  just  say  no  to  you,  it  wouldn't  be  so  bad.  But 
all  I  can  answer  is  that  I  can't  say  yes." 

Once  more  he  went  over  his  inadequacies,  his 
acknowledged  cultural  inferiority.  She  grew  im- 
patient. 

"Oh,  I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  hold  me  so  cheap. 

What  is  the  use  of  talking  like  that?    Do  you  think 

I'm  the  sort  of  woman  who'd  care  if  you  were 

seventy-five  or  a  coal-heaver?    The  only  way  I  can 

look  at  a  man  is  to  ask  myself  whether  I  love  him 

or  whether  I  don't.    And  if  I  happen  to  fall  in  love 

with  a  man  of  seventy-five,  or  with  a  coal-heaver, 

it  would  be  no  more  strange  than  falling  in  love  with 

a  Greek  god.     You  don't  understand,  Dick.     One 

falls  in  love  or  one  doesn't,  and,  if  one  doesn't,  it's 

no  use  trying  to  find  an  elixir  of  youth  for  the  old 

man  or  to  wash  the  coal-heaver.    If  one  falls  in  love 

nothing  can  be  done;  and  if  one  doesn't,  nothing  can 

be  done  either." 

.     390 


°$  POWER ^ 

"Won't  you  risk  it?"  asked  Bulmer. 

She  was  touched  by  this  humility. 

"No,  Dick,  I  won't  risk  it.  It  wouldn't  be  fair 
to  you.  You  see,  you'd  share  the  risk.  It  would 
be  awful  for  you  if  I  made  you  unhappy  as  a  wife 
when  you'd  expected  so  much." 

" Suppose  I  was  Houghton?" 

She  flushed.  Really,  his  directness  bordered  vul- 
garity. "Please,"  she  said,  "let  us  leave  Major 
Houghton  out  of  this.  You've  worried  me  about  him 
too  often,  and  because  you've  wrung  a  few  facts  out 
of  me,  you  .  .  .  yes,  you  presume." 

"He  asked  you  to  marry  him?" 

"I  didn't  say  that." 

"No,  but  I  know.  I  feel  it.  If  it  weren't  for  him 
you'd  marry  me.  No  doubt  you're  going  to  marry 
him." 

"I'm  not  going  to  discuss  it."  But  she  was  stung 
by  his  false  assumption,  and  added:  "I  don't  say 
.  .  .  Well,  he  did  ask  me,  and  I  said  to  him  the  same 
as  to  you.  He's  all  right,  thank  goodness,  a  pris- 
oner.    We'll  see  when  the  war  is  done." 

Bulmer  accepted  the  situation.  He  had  not 
enough  intuition  to  realize  that  Houghton,  a  prisoner 
of  the  Turks,  was  more  dangerous  than  Houghton 
lunching  at  the  Ritz,  for  he  was  a  romantic  figure, 
and  so  did  not  tell  himself  that  he  would  beat  him 
more  easily  when  he  came  home.  He  merely  told 
himself  that  the  struggle  was  adjourned,  and  that 
when  Houghton  came  back  he  would  be  beaten  as 
other  men  had  been  beaten  by  the  Bulmer  who  had 
faced  Lord  Immingham  and  twisted  his  policy, 
broken  Sir  Benjamin  Martin,  Edgeworth;  this  Bul- 
26  391 


«  CALIBAN  *g 

mer  whose  career  was  littered  with  broken  men  who 
had  faced  him,  but  never  long.  Excepting  at  inter- 
vals, his  passion  did  not  flare  up,  but  carried  him 
through  his  busy  life  as  the  low  accompaniment  of 
a  song.  In  those  days,  when  America  had  come  in, 
when  Rumania  was  being  invaded  on  all  sides,  when 
the  capitalist  governments  of  the  world  were  turning 
away  from  Kerensky,  favoring  the  adventurer  Kor- 
niloff,  refusing  to  disclose  their  war  aims  because 
they  feared  to  reveal  themselves,  when  Frenchmen, 
Englishmen,  Italians,  were  rifling  the  pockets  of  a 
drunken  Europe,  when  the  current  of  politics  was 
at  its  most  turbid,  Bulmer  was  finding  his  power. 
The  Bolsheviks  had  just  seized  Russia,  exposed  the 
secret  treaties  which  had  been  made  while  deceived 
Wilson  prated  of  justice.  They  revealed  a  world 
stinking  as  any  saint,  where  self-determination  meant 
the  gerrymandering  of  German,  Austrian,  and  Turk- 
ish territories,  meant  that  every  Naboth's  vineyard 
the  Allies  coveted  would  vote  for  the  Allies  under 
the  protection  of  Allied  rifles.  Then  it  was  clear 
that  France  once  more  was  out  for  revenge,  that 
Italy  once  more  was  out  for  vanity,  that  England, 
as  usual,  was  out  for  loot;  then  the  three  B's  that 
make  Empire — Beer,  Bible,  and  Bayonet — were 
joined  in  symbolic  panoply  by  Honi  soit  qui  mat  y 
pense,  Dieu  protege  la  France,  and  perhaps  even 
E  pluribus  unum.  The  world  had  fallen  into  the 
claws  of  brutal  cynicism,  snaky  finesse,  and  filthy 
gold  lust;  j^nen  the  world  was  Bulmer' s — was 
Bulmer. 

He  was  happy  in  those  days.    Those  were  times 
when  hate  of  reason  ran  high,  when  revenge  was  a 

392 


*8?  POWER  « 

holy  duty,  when  the  morality  of  the  world  had 
shifted  east  of  Suez,  "  where  there  ain't  no  Ten  Com- 
mandments.5 '  One  ceased  to  say,  "Is  it  fair?"  One 
said,  "Will  it  hit  the  Hun?"  One  had  set  out  to 
beat  the  Hun  in  the  name  of  freedom;  one  was  going 
to  beat  the  Hun  in  the  name  of  profit.  So  the  Bul- 
mer  mind  was  the  mind  of  the  times;  excessive, 
ruthless,  dramatic.  In  the  early  years  of  the  war 
he  had  been  feared.  Now  he  was  obeyed.  If  in  '14 
he  had  said,  "Hang  the  prisoners,"  the  public  would 
have  been  shocked;  by  degrees,  because  feelings 
grew  vague,  because  life  was  cheap,  because  justice 
was  complicated  and  revenge  simple,  because  justice 
meant  thinking,  while  revenge  meant  action,  action 
only  was  taken  as  worthy. 

Buhner  was  in  the  councils  of  the  government. 
He  was  not  now  content  with  snapping  at  the  heels 
of  Ministers  and  occasionally  flashing  his  teeth.  The 
political  seeds  sown  by  Swinbrook,  and  encouraged 
by  Singleton  and  Ash,  had  now  grown  into  tall 
weeds.  He  wanted  to  shape  policy,  and  he  was 
encouraged  by  Escombe,  who,  with  characteristic 
craft,  sent  for  him  from  time  to  time,  asked  his 
advice,  and  twisted  his  policy.  It  was  Escombe 
induced  him  to  take  part  in  the  shaping  of  the 
financial  agreement  between  America  and  the  Allies. 
He  found  Buhner  difficult  to  manage  because  the 
newspaper  proprietor  conceived  a  simple  idea;  the 
Allies  had  supplied  the  men,  let  America  pay  the 
cost  of  the  war. 

"See  what  I  mean,  Escombe?"  he  said.  "Make 
a  damn  good  head-line.  British  Boys  and  Ameri- 
can Dollars.    No.    No  good.    Too  many  letters 

393 


]8? CALIBAN *S? 

in  it.  What  about  British  blood?  Yes,  they  like 
blood  nowadays  .  .  .  yes,  Yankee  gold.  Rob'd  do 
you  a  fine  set  of  cartoons.  Miss  America  giving  a 
bag  of  dollars  to  a  Tommy.  And  Miss  America  in 
a  car  made  of  dollars  driving  British  officers  in 
Flanders.     Not  brass  hats.     Public  hates  'em!" 

"I  quite  agree  with  you/'  said  Escombe.  "Only 
you  have  to  take  into  account  that  America  has  also 
sent  some  men.  If  you  could  guarantee  that  the 
war  would  be  over  before  the  American  troops  came 
into  play,  I  should  be  entirely  with  you.  But  my 
hesitation  to  forecast  this  makes  me  inclined  to  think 
that  you  yourself  will  want  to  revise  your  admirable 
idea. 

"Hum!  ha,  yes,  I  see  what  you  mean.  But  what 
about  a  sliding  scale?  What  about  putting  up  three 
hundred  a  year  per  man?  That's  what  he  costs,  and 
have  a  clearing-house  at  the  end?  Like  that,  if 
America  put  up  a  million  men  she'd  be  credited  with 
three  hundred  million  a  year.  France,  with  six  mill- 
ion men,  credited  with  eighteen  hundred  millions  a 
year.     Sort  it  out  when  the  war's  done." 

Escombe  found  him  very  difficult,  because  the 
Minister  tended  to  financial  schemes  that  could  only 
be  worked  by  experts,  while  Bulmer  thought  of 
schemes  that  could  be  understood  by  readers  of  the 
Daily  Gazette.  He  floated  a  few  of  them,  and  so  great 
was  the  noise  that  Escombe  found  himself  compelled 
to  adopt  them  in  a  modified  form.  But  Bulmer  was 
cautious  enough  to  avoid  traps.  Thus,  a  banker 
came  to  him  with  a  proposal  to  boom  premium 
bonds.  Bulmer  hesitated.  He  was  attracted  by 
the  idea  of  twenty-thousand-pound  prizes  and  no 

394 


% POWER jK 

interest.  Damn  the  interest.  But  he  reflected  that 
while  independence  was  all  right  now,  it  might  not  do 
after  the  war,  because  after  the  war  people  wouldn't 
be  allowed  to  be  independent.  So  he  temporized, 
sounding  Escombe,  and  on  discovering  that  the 
Treasury  was  framing  a  statement  against  premium 
bonds,  seized  upon  references  to  the  matter  in  an 
opposition  paper  and  caused  The  Day  and  all  the 
Gazettes  to  take  a  violent  line  against  the  bonds, 
which  he  described  as  an  immoral  gamble  prejudicial 
to  British  credit.  In  due  course,  when  the  Treasury 
had  settled  whether  a  certain  sentence  in  their 
declaration  required  two  commas  or  three,  Bulmer 
was  able  to  announce  that  he  had  stopped  premium 
bonds.  A  Liberal  member  of  Parliament  asked 
Escombe  whether  he  took  instructions  from  the 
Daily  Gazette,  and  was  called  to  order  by  the 
Speaker.  The  public  had  no  illusions  as  to  the  sup- 
pressed reply. 

Indeed,  as  1917  passed  into  1918,  the  government 
became  conscious  of  the  growing  cry  against  Bulmer. 
Through  him  the  Cabinet  was  now  being  raked  on 
two  sides;  the  Liberal  papers  said  that  it  took  its 
orders  from  Northcliffe;  the  Conservative  papers 
said  that  Escombe  was  a  Jack-in-the-Box,  and  only 
came  out  when  Bulmer  took  off  the  lid;  the  neutral 
papers  said  that  government  had  been  reduced  into 
a  tennis  singles  between  Northcliffe  and  Bulmer, 
and  that  Escombe  was  the  ball.  A  few  of  the  wiser 
people  agreed  that  so  far  this  representation  of 
Escombe  was  correct,  but  that  both  Bulmer  and 
Northcliffe  would  miss  the  ball  before  they  had  done 
with  the  game.     Then  Escombe  offered  Bulmer  a 

395 


H  CALIBAN  *g 

seat  in  the  Cabinet.  This  did  not  happen  until 
early  1918,  because  a  portion  of  the  Cabinet  threat- 
ened to  resign  if  Bulmer  was  admitted,  while  as 
many  threatened  to  resign  if  he  was  not.  At  that 
time  the  Prime  Minister  was  too  much  concerned 
with  Russia  to  control  his  government,  and  so 
Escombe,  for  five  months,  had  to  arrange  his  com- 
mittees in  such  a  way  as  to  mix  the  two  factions. 
For  four  months  he  managed  to  shelve  the  Bulmer 
question  by  creating  a  Defense  Committee  of  three 
that  resembled  the  sack  into  which  the  Sultan  puts 
the  discarded  favorite  with  a  cat  and  a  snake  before 
throwing  the  whole  into  the  Bosphorus.  The  favor- 
ite, in  this  case  Sir  John  Tibenham,  the  cat,  Mr. 
Bentley,  and  the  snake,  Mr.  D.  Barnet,  occupied 
the  months  in  biting,  scratching,  or  kicking,  as  was 
their  nature.  Escombe  did  not  doubt  that  he  could 
keep  the  Cabinet  going  in  this  way  for  many  months, 
because  the  minor  officeholders  would  go  on  trying 
to  shift  the  major  officeholders,  while  the  latter 
would  devote  their  energy  to  advertising  themselves. 
Then  he  realized  that  Bulmer  outside  the  Cabinet 
was  more  inconvenient  than  Bulmer  inside. 

"You  know,"  he  said  to  his  secretary,  "I  think 
we'd  better  have  him  in.  We'd  find  him  some  job 
that  looks  simple  and  isn't.  One  might  give  him 
Ireland." 

The  secretary  laughed.  "Yes,  why  not  try  him 
with  Ireland?" 

"It's  an  idea,"  said  Escombe.  "You  see,  he 
never  mentions  Ireland  in  the  Daily  Gazette,  and  I've 
an  idea  that  he'd  bite  if  you  offered  him  something 
new.     He  could  paddle  along  for  a  few  months. 

396 


«  POWER  *8 

One  could  always  keep  him  quiet  by  mislaying  his 
minutes  if  they  got  too  bad." 

"Yes,"  said  the  secretary.  "Of  course,  he'd  want 
to  put  up  a  Home  Rale  bill,  but  I  think  one  could 
persuade  him  to  call  a  convention  first.  That  would 
take  time,  and  the  result  would  be  vague." 

"Yes,"  said  Escombe,  "that's  it.  And  then  when 
the  war's  done  we'd  let  him  put  up  his  bill.  After 
that,  he  wouldn't  last  a  fortnight — at  least  that's 
my  experience  of  the  last  thirty  Home  Rule  schemes." 

Bulmer  hesitated  for  a  long  time  when  offered  a 
seat  in  the  Cabinet.  He  realized  that  he  would  be 
very  unpopular  in  the  House  of  Lords,  especially  as 
Irish  Secretary.  It  was  very  tempting.  He'd  be 
the  biggest  man  in  the  Lords,  bar  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor. He  even  told  himself,  "I  wish  mother  was 
alive;  it  would  serve  her  right."  But,  as  he  hesi- 
tated, Escombe  made  a  mistake,  and  tried  to  per- 
suade him;  Bulmer,  growing  as  suspicious  as  when 
he  was  offered  a  constituency,  suggested  terms. 

"You  know,  if  I  take  the  Irish  Secretaryship  it 
wouldn't  muzzle  the  Gazette,  would  it?" 

"Muzzle?"  said  Escombe,  shocked.  "My  dear 
fellow,  the  press  is  free  in  this  country." 

"Oh,  is  it!"  said  Bulmer,  remembering  the  Press 
Bureau.  "My  man  in  Norwich  tells  me  that  your 
people  blue-penciled  a  complete  article  of  his  and 
sent  it  in  with  the  remark,  'Nothing  of  this  may 
be  printed  except  the  title.'" 

Escombe  laughed.  "Oh,  well,  you  know,  it 
wouldn't  be  in  the  public  interest  ..." 

"I  know  all  about  that,"  said  Bulmer.  "That's 
what  you  all  say  in  the  House.     It  wouldn't  be  in 

397 


*g  CALIBAN  « 

the  public  interest  for  me  to  criticize  the  government 
if  I  was  in  it." 

"You  wouldn't  want  to,"  said  Escombe,  suavely. 
"You'd  have  a  share  in  making  their  policy.  Al- 
ready you  can  see  how  you  influence  us." 

"Yes,"  said  Buhner,  suddenly  enlightened,  "I  see. 
I'd  be  a  rubber  stamp  on  everything  the  govern- 
ment did.  And  if  I  said  anything  everybody' d  say, 
' Then  why  don't  you  throw  up  the  job?'  No.  Not 
for  this  child.  Northcliffe  has  taken  the  American 
Mission,  but  that  doesn't  entangle  him  in  policy, 
and  it  may  be  that  his  correspondents  put  him  on 
to  many  a  fact  the  F.  0.  doesn't  know,  but  you're 
offering  me  too  much.  You  want  to  muzzle  me  by 
making  me  afraid  to  lose  my  seat  in  the  Cabinet." 

Escombe  argued  for  a  long  time,  but  he  could  not 
move  Bulmer.  The  relations  between  the  Minister 
and  the  newspaper  proprietor  were,  at  that  time, 
rather  peculiar.  It  was  impossible  to  say  whether 
Escombe  used  Bulmer  for  the  performance  of  his 
private  vendettas  or  whether  Bulmer  selected  the 
victims  so  that  Escombe  might  gracefully  give  way 
to  public  opinion.  The  general  impression  that  Bul- 
mer ruled  the  Minister  was  rather  superficial,  for 
Escombe  quite  as  often  induced  Bulmer  to  try  a 
policy  on  the  public  as  Bulmer  came  to  him  with  a 
written  scheme  and  asked  him  to  put  it  into  force. 
So  it  was  unjust  to  clamor  against  government  by 
newspaper.  Occasionally  Bulmer  did,  without  con- 
sultation, force  a  policy  upon  the  Cabinet,  and  like- 
wise, once  or  twice,  Escombe  asked  him  to  give 
publicity  to  a  view,  but  the  truth  lay  between  these 
extremes.    Bulmer  was  too  independent  to  be  ruled, 

398 


«  POWER  H 

and  Escombe  was  too  slippery.  Their  alliance,  in 
those  days,  was  rather  that  of  a  burglar  and  his 
assistant;  Buhner  used  the  jimmy,  and  Escombe, 
with  a  thousand  ears,  detected  every  whisper  in  the 
public-houses  from  John  o'Groat's  to  Land's  End. 
This  occasionally  gave  rise  to  apparent  divergences. 
While  the  Daily  Gazettes  were  raging  for  a  reduction 
of  the  meat  ration,  Escombe  was  speaking  at  Dur- 
ham and  cheering  everybody  up  by  tales  of  great 
stores  of  chilled  beef.  This  because  Escombe  had 
heard  one  of  the  whispers :  the  miners  were  demand- 
ing an  extra  ration,  and  so  he  thought  it  well  to  give 
them  a  few  words.  He  knew  that  the  Daily  Ga- 
zettes could  next  day  turn  a  somersault.  Escombe's 
political  style  did  not  consist  in  somersaults;  it  was 
more  akin  to  skirt  dancing.  Still,  there  was  between 
the  two  men  a  kinship  of  temperament;  both  were 
capricious,  both  unable  to  keep  their  hands  off  other 
people's  jobs;  both  were  convinced  that  they  alone 
could  give  a  policy  its  finishing  touch,  and  neither 
let  to-morrow  know  what  was  said  to-day.  Bulmer 
was  given  to  smashing  things,  and  Escombe  to  ignor- 
ing them,  but  in  any  case  the  things  toppled. 
Escombe  felt  sure  that  when  the  time  came  some- 
thing would  topple  on  Bulmer. 

There  was  a  little  trouble  between  them  in  April, 
when  the  German  offensive  was  bending  the  British 
line  on  to  Amiens,  for  Bulmer  arrived  early  at 
Escombe's  house  with  a  complete  set  of  posters, 
headed:  "The  Country  Is  in  Danger."  He  de- 
manded that  a  mass  levy  be  proclaimed,  not  only  in 
Great  Britain,  but  in  every  Dominion,  and  in  India. 
Bulmer  wanted  the  military  age  raised  to  sixty-five, 

399 


«  CALIBAN  °g 

the  conscription  of  women,  and  the  shutting  down 
of  all  schools  and  institutions  receiving  children  be- 
tween the  ages  of  fourteen  and  eighteen;  these,  too, 
were  to  be  conscripted. 

" Excuse  me  if  I  shave,"  said  Escombe.  "I've 
got  a  committee  at  10.30.  Very  interesting.  Yes, 
you  have  the  situation  well  in  hand.  Very  serious. 
I  quite  agree  with  you.  You're  printing  all  this  in 
the  Daily  Gazette,  I  suppose,  this  morning?" 

"Well,  no,  not  all  of  it.  I  wanted  to  see  you 
first." 

"Um yes  ...  I  don't  think  you  go  far  enough." 

"What!"  cried  Bulmer,  outraged  by  such  a  sug- 
gestion. 

"No.  I  think  we  ought  to  do  everything  you  say 
and  also  close  every  business  except  munitions  and 
food." 

"Oh,  I  say,"  replied  Bulmer,  "do  you  think  the 
public'll  stick  it?" 

"You  don't  seem  to  know  there's  a  war  on,"  said 
Escombe. 

"Nonsense,"  said  Bulmer.  "Why  go  in  for  ex- 
treme measures  if  we  don't  need  them?" 

"Perhaps  you're  right,"  said  Escombe,  "but,  after 
all,  your  own  ideas  are  rather  extreme." 

"Well,  I  haven't  published  them,"  said  Bulmer, 
aggrieved.  "That's  only  my  point  of  view."  He 
became  thoughtful.  The  extremism  of  Escombe  had 
gone  so  much  beyond  his  own  that  he  felt  over- 
whelmed by  a  new  kind  of  extremism — namely, 
moderation.  While  Escombe  went  on  soaping  his 
face  and  carefully  shaving,  talking  obvious  nonsense 
about  lowering  the  military  age  to  fifteen,  Bulmer 

400 


■g .POWER « 

grew  more  and  more  convinced  that  his  own  pro- 
posals had  gone  too  far.  They  breakfasted  together. 
Buhner  lowered  the  military  age  to  fifty-five.  While 
Escombe  manufactured  more  violence  in  the  shape 
of  an  invasion  of  Holland,  Buhner  decided  that  those 
posters  would  be  a  mistake.  They'd  create  panic. 
At  last  he  went  away,  and  when,  a  few  days  later, 
the  consequences  of  the  crisis  proved  merely  to  be 
a  new  comb-out  and  the  raising  of  the  military  age 
to  fifty-one,  Buhner  thought:  "I'm  glad  I  went  to 
see  Escombe  that  morning.  He's  excessive,  that 
chap,  sometimes.  It's  a  good  thing  I  pulled  him 
round.  Nobody  knows  what  he'd  have  done  if  I 
hadn't  calmed  him  down."  He  felt  very  powerful. 
He  was  shaping  the  Empire. 

As  for  Escombe,  he  said  to  his  secretary:  "Narrow 
shave  that,  narrow  shave.  If  Buhner  hadn't  come 
to  see  me  that  morning,  he'd  have  got  himself  into 
such  a  panic  that  I  couldn't  have  panicked  harder 
than  he.  And  then  how  should  I  have  brought  off 
his  reaction?" 


Chapter  XII 
Hullo,  Life! 

BULMER  thought:  "It's  over.  For  a  time. 
Guess  it'll  break  out  again  by  and  by.  The 
Allies  are  bound  to  quarrel.  Natural,  after  all." 
His  mind  fastened  on  the  complexities  of  the  peace 
just  made,  on  the  extraordinary  confusion  in  Europe. 
There  it  was,  the  peace.  No  fine  sense  of  justice,  no 
intuition  even  warned  him  that  peace  was  sowing 
the  seeds  of  war  by  enthralling  Germans  under 
Italians,  Poles,  Czechoslovaks;  he  saw  no  injustice 
in  the  forcible  disruption  of  enemy  states;  he  had 
learned  no  lesson  even  from  modern  history.  The 
Daily  Gazette  in  1912  thundered  that  Serbia  must 
have  a  port.  The  Daily  Gazette  of  1919  saw  no 
reason  why  Austria  should  have  a  port.  The  Daily 
Gazette  in  1913  clamored  that  the  Rumanians  must 
unite  with  their  brothers  in  the  Dobrudja,  then  en- 
slaved by  the  Bulgar.  The  Daily  Gazette  in  1919 
saw  no  reason  why  Germans  should  not  be  kept 
separate  from  their  compatriots  in  East  Prussia, 
enslaved  under  the  Poles.  So  his  conclusion  was 
neither  philosophic  nor  founded  on  historic  expe- 
rience. He  thought  that  war  would  break  out  again, 
because  war  always  broke  out — like  smallpox.  Yes, 
like  smallpox :  we'd  got  vaccination,  and  yet  it  broke 

402 


]8  HULLO,  LIFE!  *8 

out  occasionally.  And  then  everybody  ran  to  the 
doctors  to  be  vaccinated  again.  No  doubt  they'd 
all  run  to  the  League  of  Nations  for  an  injection  of 
anti-war  serum.  But  smallpox  broke  out  all  the 
same.     So  would  war. 

He  thought:  "Of  course,  there's  Labor.  Labor 
doesn't  want  war.  At  least,  it  thinks  it  doesn't. 
Everybody  thinks  they  don't  want  war,  and  every- 
body does  the  things  which  bring  it  about.  Labor'd 
be  just  the  same.  Even  if  they  set  up  their  precious 
Gild  Socialism,  I  suspect  the  international  iron- 
workers would  make  war  on  the  international  bakers 
to  get  bread  from  them  under  the  most  favored 
trade-union  class."  And  he  played  with  one  of  his 
few  Utopian  ideas.  He  imagined  the  last  days  of 
the  world,  when  the  temperature  would  have  fallen, 
when  the  earth  was  almost  as  cold  as  the  moon;  when 
there  were  no  insects;  when  the  fish  would  lie  frozen 
in  the  ice;  when  the  birds  would  be  dead  as  vegetable 
life  vanished,  and  there  were  no  seeds;  when  only 
strange  animals,  such  as  the  polar  bear  and  the  blue 
fox,  were  maintaining  their  last  generations  by  eat- 
ing one  another,  and  when  only  men  would  survive 
by  their  ingenuity  and  their  obstinate  will  to  live. 
He  glimpsed  the  last  war,  the  last  battalions  of  men, 
muffled  in  furs,  each  man  carrying  upon  his  breast 
the  little  electric  stove  that  maintained  his  life. 
They  would  advance  in  the  tunnels  which  they  made 
under  the  snow  with  a  service  shaft-cutter.  There 
would  be  a  great,  silent,  white  war,  between  men 
who  had  discarded  the  futile  rifle  and  the  outworn 
fifteen-inch  gun,  men  armored  with  metal  refractory 
to  Ray  22,  who  would  draw  air  through  a  neutraliz- 

403 


*8?  CALIBAN  *g 

ing  reservoir,  thus  able  to  resist  the  poisoned  gas 
that  spread  all  over  the  earth  from  bombs  dropped 
out  of  airplanes.  The  airplanes  would  not  dare  to 
approach  the  acrid  fumes  with  which  mankind  sur- 
rounded itself  nearer  than  six  or  seven  thousand 
yards.  And  men  would  die,  and  die,  and  the  snow 
would  fall  upon  their  tunnels  and  obliterate  them. 
A  Jones  would  invent  a  mask  that  no  poison  could 
penetrate,  a  Dupont  a  gas  that  no  mask  could  stop. 
Jones  would  be  knighted,  and  Dupont  would  get 
the  Legion  oVHonneur.  And  Ray  22  would  be  su- 
perseded as  out  of  date.  Buried  in  the  warm 
bowels  of  the  earth,  men  would  kill  by  thought 
wave. 

He  laughed.  Or  perhaps  the  world  would  be 
struck  by  a  comet  that  now  lay  a  million  years  away 
in  another  nebular  system.  Then  the  air  would  be 
rilled  with  flame,  the  volcanoes  would  belch  molten 
lava,  and  the  sizzling  earth  would  vomit  pungent 
smoke.  Among  the  flames  and  the  clouds  men  would 
still  be  fighting,  incased  in  a  new  kind  of  asbestos 
armor,  and  swirl  away,  locked  in  hate,  struggling, 
scorched  figures,  down  into  the  caldrons  of  hell,  and 
so  disappear,  charred,  carbonized  figures,  their  fingers 
at  one  another's  throats.  .  . 

War,  always  war.  They  would  fight  for  the  last 
drop  of  water.  And  it  was  right.  The  last  drop  of 
water  to  the  greediest  gullet.  Labor?  Yes,  there 
was  Labor.  He  supposed  he  mustn't  think  about 
those  things.  He  was  a  Labor  man.  Reflectively, 
Bulmer  wondered  why  he  hadn't  gone  Labor  months 
before.  He  hadn't  been  able  to  resist  it,  in  the  end. 
Labor  was  so  very  much  the  latest  thing.    It  was 

404 


°g  HULLO,  LIFE!  *g 

fashionable;  a  whole  lot  of  smart  people,  a  couple 
of  earls  and  three  peeresses,  had  taken  it  up.  But  he 
realized  that  it  wasn't  quite  that.  He  had  begun  on 
an  impulse,  when  the  Daily  Mail,  during  the  election, 
gave  a  column  a  day  to  the  Labor  party.  He  real- 
ized that  this  couldn't  go  on,  that  the  Daily  Mail 
was  fundamentally  a  middle-class  paper.  So  was 
the  Daily  Gazette,  but  he  saw  that,  as  wages  rose — 
and  they  were  rising — a  new  class  of  newspaper- 
buyers  was  going  to  demand  news.  There  was  no 
Labor  daily.  He  saw  that  the  middle  class  could  not 
give  him  a  circulation  of  more  than  a  million  a  day, 
while  there  were  four  million  trade-unionists.  He 
hesitated  a  little  on  account  of  The  Day.  The  Day 
was  no  longer  the  paper  of  generations  of  Mortimers; 
it  was  a  nippy,  up-to-date  Day,  with  leaderettes  and 
summaries  of  news,  and  dramatic  accounts  of  par- 
liamentary proceedings.  It  was  no  longer  The 
Yesterday,  but  it  was  not  To-morrow.  So  Bul- 
mer  determined,  as  he  put  it,  to  let  The  Day  stew  in 
its  own  cocoa.  As  for  the  Daily  Gazette,  he  printed 
a  poster: 

SOMETHING  IS  GOING  TO  HAPPEN 
WATCH  THE  DAILY  GAZETTE 


He  did  not  tell  even  Alford  what  this  meant.  The 
editor,  as  well  as  his  staff,  were  for  three  days  pur- 
sued by  questions  from  the  Cock,  the  Press  Club, 
and  other  Fleet  Street  rumor  exchanges.  They  did 
not  know. 

"  How's  one  to  know  what  the  boss  is  thinking?" 

405 


«  CALIBAN  IS 

asked  Renton,  the  foreign  editor.  "It's  something 
new.     So  how  is  one  to  forecast?" 

On  the  5th  of  December  all  the  Daily  Gazettes 
advertised  under  large  head-lines  that  the  group  had 
gone  Labor.  London  would  have  been  enormously 
excited  if  the  cocaine  case  had  not  occupied  it.  Bul- 
mer  missed  this  fact,  but  it  was  too  late  to  get  the 
Attorney-General  to  postpone  proceedings  for  a 
week,  so  he  did  not  quite  make  his  effect.  People 
said:  "At  it  again!  Same  old  weathercock."  And 
several  rivals  in  Fleet  Street,  who  had  never  intended 
to  go  Labor  themselves,  were  annoyed  because  Bul- 
mer  had  done  so;  he  had  done  what  they  could  have 
done  if  they'd  wanted  to,  and  he  had  known  it  was 
the  thing  to  do.  His  conversion  half  proved  that 
Labor  was  in  the  right. 

"Anyhow,"  said  the  editor  of  the  Courier,  "if  it 
isn't  the  right  thing,  it'll  become  the  right  thing  now 
that  blighter's  done  it."  The  editor  of  the  Courier 
was  not  quite  right,  for  Buhner  was  in  a  rather  false 
position.  He  found  that  he  had  quarreled  with 
Escombe,  because  Escombe,  after  a  long  conference 
with  his  secretary,  decided  that,  the  war  being  done, 
this  was  the  moment  when  Buhner  would  hang  him- 
self. "I  think  he's  done  it,"  he  said.  "I  think  he's 
made  his  first  mistake.  If  his  papers  were  suitable 
for  Labor  men  Labor  men  would  have  bought  them 
long  ago.  Now  he's  trying  to  seduce  them  by  adopt- 
ing their  politics.  No  good.  There  are  no  Labor 
politics.  There  are  only  desires  for  more  wages, 
more  beer,  and  less  work.  The  middle  class  is  dif- 
ferent. It  has  got  pohtics,  which  are  summed  up 
in  keeping  Labor  down.  So  Buhner  can  preach  Social- 

406 


«  HULLO,  LIFE! jB 

ism  and  water;  it  won't  sell  him  an  extra  copy,  and 
by  ceasing  to  urge  me  to  shoot  strikers  he'll  lose 
three  or  four  hundred  thousand  supporters." 

Escombe  was  right,  for  Bulmer  found  little  sup- 
port in  the  Labor  ranks.  The  honest  leaders  sus- 
pected him.  They  were  willing  to  use  him,  but  not 
to  trust  him;  they  felt  that  he  had  turned  against 
his  own  side  and  that  this  might  become  a  habit. 
One  of  them,  an  ex-schoolmaster,  very  extreme,  who 
had  just  lost  his  seat,  was  acute  enough  to  under- 
stand him.  In  an  address  to  the  party  executive 
he  said:  "Buhner's  taken  up  Labor  because  it's  scor- 
ing, but  within  six  months  we'll  be  fighting  Russia, 
establishing  conscription;  we'll  be  in  the  full  blast 
of  the  reaction.  That  will  be  the  latest,  and  Bulmer 
won't  let  the  latest  escape." 

The  Labor  leader  was  partly  wrong,  for,  on  this 
late  day  of  June,  Bulmer  realized  that  he  could  not 
turn  back.  The  last  six  months  had  been  very  diffi- 
cult; the  miners'  strike  had  not  been  troublesome, 
because  photographs  of  impossible  miners'  cottages 
made  effective  copy,  and  because  it  was  easy  to 
draw  sympathy  from  the  public  by  describing  the 
moist  atmosphere  in  hot  mines.  But  the  Tube  strike 
worried  him  because  it  immediately  annoyed  his 
readers,  and  anything  that  annoyed  his  readers 
annoyed  him.  And  he  lost  himself  in  the  confusion 
of  Labor  politics,  in  the  rivalries  between  the  Miners' 
Federation  and  its  constituent  unions,  among  the 
overlapping  functions  of  the  Labor  party  and  the 
Parliamentary  Committee  of  the  Trade-Union  Con- 
gress. Though  he  had  engaged  Labor  experts,  he 
found  that  they  quarreled  abominably,  that  he  could 

27  407 


*g       ^ CALIBAN ]B 

not  trust  the  Socialist  Labor  Federation  to  represent 
correctly  the  British  Socialist  party.  As  for  the 
British  Workers'  League  and  its  extraordinary  com- 
pound of  decayed  Toryism  and  sham  Radicalism,  he 
could  not  understand  it  at  all.  Once  he  said  to 
Alford:  "Oh,  lor'!  I  don't  say  I  wish  we'd  stayed 
plain  Liberal,  but  it'd  have  been  easier.  This  blasted 
Labor  movement's  full  of  people  who  believe  in  it, 
and  so  they  backbite,  and  secede,  and  do  one  another 
down,  as  is  the  way  of  all  honest  men." 

But  it  couldn't  be  helped.  And  in  a  way  it  was 
fun.  It  had  given  him  a  new  status;  it  had  made 
him  truly  independent,  by  grouping  round  him  the 
hatred  of  the  old  parties  and  the  suspicion  of  the 
new.  Rustington  told  him  that  Ibsen  said  that  the 
strong  man  is  the  lonely  man.  This  comforted  Bul- 
mer  a  great  deal.  Also,  he  was  flattered  by  the 
power  which  clung  to  him.  It  brought  him  in  touch 
with  eventful  people.  He  even  lunched  with  Presi- 
dent Wilson,  who  disappointed  him.  In  common 
with  the  rest  of  the  Liberal  press  he  had  set  up  a 
picture  of  the  President  as  a  sort  of  St.  George,  but 
what  he  lunched  with  was  St.  George,  M.A.  The 
President  listened  to  him  endlessly,  bending  upon 
him  through  kindly  glasses  a  sharp,  gray  gaze.  He 
seemed  a  benevolent,  meek  person,  and  only  the 
tight  mouth  and  long,  flat  chin  made  one  suspect 
that  he  had  obstinate  convictions.  When  he  talked 
the  President  seemed  equally  assured  on  idealism 
and  on  trade.  He  was  interested  in  both,  and  did 
not  find  them  clash.  And  he  had  downright  ways  of 
saying:  "I  don't  think  so.  Your  proposal  would  be 
repugnant  to  the  moral  sense  of  my  country."    Also, 

408 


°g  HULLO,  LIFE!  *$ 


he  quoted  Tennyson,  with  an  air  of  discovery. 
Buhner  was  plotting  to  interview  him  and  to  annex 
him  for  Labor.  He  realized  that  Labor  feared  the 
Greeks,  but  in  the  present  state  of  things  they  would 
hardly  say,  "We  fear  Buhner  even  when  he  brings 
Wilson."  Only  the  President  seemed  to  know  all 
about  it,  as  if  he  had  learned  in  Paris  that  everybody, 
from  the  vegetarians  to  the  Jugoslavs,  wanted  to 
get  hold  of  him.  So  he  refused,  saying  in  that  dis- 
concerting, direct  way:  "No.  If  I  issue  a  message 
I  shall  issue  it  to  my  countrymen."  He  was  abso- 
lutely lucid,  cruelly  shrewd,  and  entirely  incorrup- 
tible. From  Buhner's  point  of  view,  about  as  com- 
fortable as  a  hair-brush  in  bed. 

Yet  Bulmer  greatly  needed  some  reassurance,  some 
satisfaction,  if  only  of  vanity.  He  was  forty-nine, 
and  his  chances  with  Janet  had  not  increased. 
Houghton  had  returned,  released  by  the  Turks  soon 
after  the  armistice,  but  delayed  by  fever  until  the 
previous  week.  Janet,  the  day  before,  told  him 
nothing.  She  fenced  with  him,  and  her  voice  was 
soft.  He  thought  that  she  was  melting  to  him;  did 
not  see  that  she  wanted  to  spare  him.  They  had 
rather  a  long  argument,  and  Bulmer  bluntly  pointed 
out  to  her  that  she  was  thirty-one. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "  one's  got  to  be  thirty-one  some 
time.  Of  course  I  know  that  a  woman,  so  long  as 
she's  marriageable,  is  always  twenty-nine.  But  I'm 
thirty- one.      It    may   be    a   mistake,  but    it's    no 


crime." 


He  pressed  her,  but  she  would  not  answer.  The 
gray  eyes  were  very  soft,  and  a  flush  lay  upon  her 
cheeks;  she  seemed  pretty  and  content. 

409 


°g  CALIBAN  TB 


ec 


Dick,"  she  said,  " perhaps  .  .  ."  Then  she 
changed  her  mind,  and  a  fleeting  look  of  fear  crossed 
her  face.     Abruptly,  she  added : 

"  I  want  to  see  '  Hullo,  Life ! '     Will  you  take  me?  " 

"Of  course  I  will.    What  about  to-morrow  night? 

I'll  get  a  box  if  I  can.    If  not,  as  soon  as  I  can  get 


one." 


All  right.    I  want  to  see  ' Hullo,  Life!'    It's  so 
much  like  our  period  to  have  a  revue  called  like  that, 
immediately  after  peace." 
Jolly  up-to-date  idea." 

Yes,  I  suppose  so.  I  don't  mean  that.  .  .  .  Now 
that  the  war  is  over  .  .  .  and  as  that  other  song  goes : 
' Won't  we  be  in  clover?'  it'll  be  'Rule  Britannia' 
and  'God  Save  the  King.'" 

"You're  getting  jolly  patriotic." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that.  We  sing  'God  Save  the 
King'  in  the  same  way  as  we  go  to  church.  Just 
like  that.  Only  the  title  'Hullo,  Life!'  it  seems  to 
mean  so  much  more  than  it  says.  It  means  human- 
ity dancing  in  the  park,  where  the  grass  is  beginning 
to  grow  green  on  the  brown  places  that  the  soldiers 
made  when  they  were  drilling.  It  says:  'This  is 
the  end.  No  more  killing.  Now,  we  that  are  alive, 
we  hail  life.'" 

"I  don't  see  much  to  hail,"  said  Bulmer.  "I 
might ...  if  you  chose." 

"Don't  be  silly,"  she  said,  hurriedly.  "Ring  me 
up  when  you've  got  the  box." 

Bulmer  secured  the  box  by  luck,  and  at  a  great 

price,  from  a  seat  speculator.     "Hullo,  Life!"  was 

booked  three  weeks  ahead.    For  a  moment,  as  Janet 

leaned  over  the  edge  of  the  box,  surveying  the  enor- 

410 


%  HULLO,  LIFE!  *» 

mous  audience,  she  was  thrilled.  They  swarmed  like 
ants;  dark,  male  ants,  and  female  ants  in  light 
colors,  with  white  shoulders  that  shimmered  under 
the  crashing  light.  "Such  a  lot  of  them!"  she  whis- 
pered, with  wide  eyes,  "still  alive!" 

Bulmer  did  not  say  much.  Seated  a  little  behind 
her,  looking  at  the  slender  neck  upon  which  strayed 
the  incurably  untidy  brown  hair  that  delighted  him, 
he  was  disturbed.  There  was  something  portentous 
in  her  absorption.  It  could  not  be  "Hullo,  Life!" 
— this  revue  like  all  other  revues,  with  its  silly  imi- 
tations of  actors,  its  tunes  drawn  from  the  rag-bag 
of  defunct  musical  comedies,  its  incredibly  idiotic 
young  hero,  and  the  perpetual  girls  in  a  row,  all 
dressed  alike,  and  all  shouting,  "No,  not  reely!" 
The  only  song  that  held  this  dramatic  dust-heap 
together  was  "Hullo,  Life!"  which  appeared  at  the 
end  of  the  second  act,  and  was  sung  in  her  melodious, 
hoarse  voice  by  Gladys  Champagne.  Unexpectedly, 
it  had  a  new  rhythm.  Already  it  was  well  known, 
and  though  the  audience  listened  silently  to  each 
couplet,  they  took  up  the  first  words  of  the  chorus 
and,  by  degrees,  the  voice  of  the  singer  was  drowned: 

"  Khaki  boys  and  boys  in  blue, 
Have  made  Kaiser  and  Crown  Prince  rue 
The  day  they  challenged  Britain's  might 
And  saw  the  dachshund  put  to  flight. 
And  now  we've  got  strikes  every  where, 
Whisky  there's  none,  and  beer  is  rare, 
Are  we  down-hearted?    We  say  No! 
Hullo!    Hullo!    Hullo,  Life!    Hullo! 
What's  vour  answer?     Cheerio! 
Hullo!    Hullo!    Hullo,  Life!    Hullo !" 

411 


"$  CALIBAN  °g 

At  each  chorus  the  singing  grew  louder.  It  was 
silly  and  splendid.  All  these  people,  small  people, 
light  people,  people  in  pain,  people  free  at  last, 
people  full  of  hope,  and  people  bereft,  poured  their 
emotion  into  these  poor  words,  as  well  as  they  could 
saluted  returning  life.  As  the  curtain  went  down 
to  applause  that  would  not  stop,  the  last  words  of 
the  chorus  mixed  with  the  decrepitation  of  the  clap- 
ping. Janet  turned  toward  Bulmer,  her  eyes  bright, 
her  mouth  smiling,  " Hullo!  Hullo!  Hullo,  Life! 
Hullo!"  she  murmured.  " Isn't  it  splendid?  I'm 
so  happy!" 

Bulmer  put  out  his  hand  and  took  hers.  For  a 
moment  she  surrendered,  clasping  his  fingers.  Then, 
suddenly,  a  flush  dyed  her  face  and  shoulders.  She 
snatched  her  hand  away;  with  a  little  wry  smile, 
and  eyes  that  seemed  retracted,  she  said,  in  a  hurried 
whisper : 

"I  mustn't  let  you  do  that,  Dick.  I  .  .  .  I'm 
going  to  marry  Major  Houghton  next  month.  I .  .  . 
I'm  sorry." 

Bulmer  did  not  reply,  did  not  protest.  Weari- 
ness fell  on  him,  as  if  the  years  kept  away  by  activity 
had  tumbled  upon  his  shoulders.  For  a  moment, 
Atlas  bent  under  the  weight  of  earth.  Janet  said 
something.  He  did  nob  hear  her.  The  curtain  went 
up  again;  the  third  act  was  played,  and  he  was 
numb.  He  did  not  know  what  he  thought  of.  His 
pain  resisted  the  harsh  sounds.  Janet  had  to  take 
him  by  the  elbow  to  make  him  get  up,  when  at  last 
the  curtain  fell. 

They  went  down  the  stairs.     And  Bulmer  was 

412 


%  HULLO,  LIFE!  *g 

hardly  conscious  of  loss;    rather  of  emptiness.     In 
the  theater  the  people  were  still  singing: 

"Are  we  down-hearted?    We  say  No! 
Hullo!    Hullo!    HuUo,  Life!    Hullo! 
What's  your  answer?    Cheerio! 
Hullo!    Hullo!    Hullo,  Life!    Hullo!  S 


Chapter  XIII 
Caliban 

PORTMAN  SQUARE  lay  white  and  gaudy.  The 
last  days  of  July,  and  round  the  south  side  the 
frequent  passage  of  motor-cars  that  shone,  highly 
glazed,  distinguished  by  coronet  or  monogram.  The 
pale  light  of  the  London  sun  fell  like  silver,  and 
there  was  a  sprinkle  of  dust  upon  the  wood  pavement. 
Such  large  houses.  So  solid.  With  so  many  windows 
in  which  bloomed  so  many  pink  geraniums  and  mar- 
guerites, below  the  fresh,  striped  blinds.  For  a 
moment  Bulmer  stared  at  the  traffic  of  Orchard 
Street,  that  clustered  black  and  busy  about  the 
corner  of  Selfridge's.  For  the  first  time  he  felt  re- 
moved from  life,  as  if  he  were  dead  and  his  ghost 
revisited  familiar  places;  as  if  the  public  were  for- 
eign to  him  as  an  ant-heap  disturbed  by  his  kick. 
Then,  without  emotion,  he  watched  the  last  guests 
come  out  of  the  church  in  Baker  Street,  and,  in- 
stinctively, as  if  he  feared  solicitation,  walked  round 
the  square  and  turned  up  Gloucester  Place. 

He  did  not  want  to  talk  to  these  people.  He  knew 
some  of  them.  The  recent  scene  was  still  fresh  in 
his  mind,  but  he  pictured  it  without  partizanship. 
He  had  behaved  well.  He  had  come  to  the  wedding, 
answered  salutations,  shaken  hands,  and,  with  rather 

hard  muscles,  smiled — as  some  intricate  marionette 

414 


<X& 


'g  CALIBAN  £ 


built  in  Freiburg  by  a  clock-maker.  Yet  he  felt 
guilty,  for  Janet  had  asked  him  to  come  to  the  re- 
ception, too.  No,  he  couldn't  do  that.  They  had 
talked  a  great  deal  in  the  previous  month,  and,  after 
a  violent  scene,  in  which  he  strove  to  impose  his 
personality  upon  her  emotions,  he  suddenly  grew 
resigned.  Like  a  woman  who  sees  her  hair  grow 
gray,  tries  to  dye  it,  by  degrees  realizes  that  the  hair 
looks  dyed,  and  lets  it  go.  He  was  not  reconciled, 
but  he  was  acquiescent.  And  now,  walking  up 
Gloucester  Place,  his  appearance  formed  an  incred- 
ible contrast  with  his  thoughts.  Rather  short,  active- 
looking,  with  bright  eyes  and  an  intelligent,  mobile 
mouth,  he  seemed  under  his  excellent  silk  hat,  in  his 
excellent  morning  coat,  with  his  excellently  fitting 
trousers  that  just  touched  his  white  spats,  a  healthy, 
middle-aged  man,  master  of  himself  and  of  part  of 
the  world.  But  he  walked  in  a  mist  all  the  way  up 
Gloucester  Place.  At  the  corner  he  hesitated;  it 
would  take  him  to  Bickenhall  Mansions,  and,  for 
a  moment  overcome  by  sentimentality,  he  thought 
he  would  go  and  look  again  at  the  place  where  once 
he  had  been  so  happy.  But  he  told  himself,  "I  want 
air/'  and  went  on  toward  Regent's  Park.  But  as  he 
stood  by  the  pond,  where  the  waterfowl  rested, 
fought,  and  clucked,  he  still  felt  guilty  and  injured; 
he  ought  to  have  gone  to  the  reception;  ought  to 
have  done  the  job  completely  and  properly.  But  he 
knew  he  could  not  have  borne  it.  It  had  been  bad 
enough  seeing  the  backs  of  those  two  as  they  knelt 
at  the  altar,  understanding  what  the  attitude  meant, 
seeing  this  shape  in  the  black  coat  by  the  side  of  the 
bending  neck,  tidy  that  day,  who  had  taken  his 

415 


«X2> 


CALIBAN  *3? 


woman.  Yes,  that  had  been  bad  enough.  But  to 
go  to  the  unaccustomed  house  of  some  relative  of 
hers,  to  stand  in  a  crowd  where  everybody  talked 
very  loud  and  jostled  and  seemed  indecently  excited 
by  the  advertisement  of  sex  .  .  .  no,  he  couldn't  do 
that.  And  he  couldn't  see  them  standing  side  by 
side,  look  her  in  the  eyes,  for  she  would  be  flushed 
and  smiling;  the  man,  too,  pleased  and  self-conscious; 
and  both  of  them  with  that  awful  air  of  relief  that 
comes  over  the  wedded  when  at  last  the  ceremony 
has  been  performed  and  responsibility  ends.  No, 
he  couldn't  go  up  to  him,  shake  hands,  and  smile 
vapidly. 

For  a  moment  he  thought  of  Houghton.  It  hurt 
him  to  feel  no  hatred.  He  had  met  him  again,  and 
one  could  not  hate  Houghton;  his  humorous  mouth 
and  his  faintly  bitter  speech,  his  suggestion  of  re- 
serve, of  withdrawn  personality,  made  him  popular. 
One  liked  Houghton.     One  didn't  know  why. 

Buhner  thought:  " After  all,  what  does  it  matter 
whether  I  hate  Houghton  or  not?  What  does  it 
matter  if  I  hate  Janet  or  not?  She's  talked  non- 
sense about  always  being  my  friend.  Friendship!" 
He  laughed.  Friendship  after  love;  what  a  black 
draught  to  drain  after  the  rosy  wine  of  emotion! 
"Well,"  he  thought,  "it's  done.  No  more  to  be 
said,"  and  turned.  He  felt  very  tired;  he  wanted 
to  go  home,  to  lie  down.  The  heat  was  heavy  and 
exhausted  him.  But,  as  he  entered  Mayfair,  a  dis- 
gust came  over  him  of  his  big  house,  his  vast  lounge, 
the  drawing-room,  the  big  bathroom  and  its  excess 
of  comforts,  like  the  showroom  at  Shanks's.  He 
thought:    "Fd  better  go  to  the  club.    A  game  of 

416 


^  CALIBAN  *g 

bridge,  perhaps."  But  he  did  not  go  to  the  club. 
As  he  went  eastward  he  thought  of  sending  for  his 
car  and  for  a  while  hiding  at  Bargo  Court.  The 
country?  For  a  moment  he  aspired  to  the  Shake- 
speare garden  behind  the  east  wing,  to  the  great 
hollyhocks  massed  with  pink  cockades.  But  even 
as  he  remembered  the  old  lavender  bush  with  a 
stem  as  thick  as  his  own  wrist,  as  the  rolling  lawns, 
short  and  velvety,  sent  up  to  him  a  reminiscent, 
moist,  earthy  smell,  he  still  made  for  the  east.  He 
went  on  through  the  Strand  and  along  Fleet  Street, 
like  some  wounded  beast  that  makes  for  its  natural 
den. 

He  felt  better  in  his  private  office.  Moss  had 
tact  enough  not  to  remark  upon  his  abstracted  mask. 
As  the  door  closed  Moss  quietly  disconnected  the 
switch  to  the  boss's  telephone.  He  stared  at  the 
boss's  door;  he  had  been  Bulmer's  secretary  for 
eighteen  years,  had  grown  up  as  the  boss  became 
middle-aged,  and  seen  him  triumphant,  angry,  ebul- 
lient, cordial,  frank,  and  sly.  Moss  had  been  with 
him  when  he  was  sick;  he  knew  all  that  Bulmer 
might  have  told  him  of  Janet,  of  Houghton,  of  all 
the  women  who  had  helped  Bulmer  to  waste  a  few 
weeks  of  his  life.  He  knew  the  boss  in  every  way, 
knew  the  look  in  his  eyes  when  he  was  pleased,  knew 
a  day  or  so  ahead  when  a  fit  of  temper  was  coming; 
he  knew  how  to  stir  him  to  action,  and  how  to  re- 
strain him.  Bulmer  unconsciously  was  his,  for  Moss 
was  the  perfect  secretary.  He  had  given  himself 
to  Bulmer  as  he  had  never  given  himself  to  the  good- 
tempered,  dark  wife,  with  whom  he  lived  happily 
in  Hampstead.    And,  as  he  stared  at  the  closed  door, 

417 


°&  CALIBAN  « 

an  almost  uncontrollable  desire  came  over  Moss  to 
rush  in  and  put  his  arms  round  the  boss's  shoulders, 
to  pet  him  and  comfort  him,  as  he  did  to  his  own 
small  children  when  they  fell  and  cut  their  knees. 

"It's  a  shame,"  he  said  aloud,  as  a  flush  rose  in 
his  dark  cheeks.  His  soft  eyes  filled  with  rage  be- 
cause the  big,  simple,  obvious,  generous  creature 
that  he  loved  was  refused  something  by  life.  He 
thought:  "There's  nothing  to  be  done.  Nothing. 
One  can't  do  anything  that  he  wouldn't  think  was 
an  impertinence.  Very  likely  he'd  like  to  die  there, 
like  the  old  elephants  in  the  jungle.  The  only  thing 
to  be  done  is  to  go  on,  plod  along  with  new  stunts, 
cheer  him  up,  and  keep  him  going  until  some  one 
else  proves  strong  enough  to  capture  him.  She'll 
take  some  finding.  But  he's  young  yet.  Forty-nine. 
There's  life  in  him  yet,  and  life's  worth  something." 
He  smiled,  and  hummed  the  chorus  that  ran  through 
every  brain: 

Hullo!    Hullo!    Hullo,  Life!    Hullo! 
What's  your  answer?    Cheerio! 
Hullo!    Hullo!    Hullo,  Life!    Hullo! 

Bulmer  looked  up  from  his  desk  with  a  startled 
expression.  His  senses,  unnaturally  vivid,  perceived 
the  song.  His  mouth  took  on  a  bitter  curl;  life, 
indeed!  What  the  hell  was  the  good  of  life?  "What 
was  the  good  of  life  to  Robinson  Crusoe,"  he  won- 
dered, "until  Man  Friday  came?"  And  he  realized 
that  Man  Friday  could  not  come  to  him.  He'd  put 
all  his  money  on  an  idea,  and  it  had  blown  away. 
Yes,  of  course,  there  were  other  things.  He  had 
wealth.    He  had  power.    And  in  such  times  power 

418 


"$  CALIBAN  ^ 

was  good,  for  the  world  was  in  chaos.  For  a  moment 
he  thought  of  the  incredible  shadow  which  was 
spreading  over  the  earth,  of  Germans  held  down  by 
the  Allies,  ready  to  leap  up,  jealous,  ambitious,  bring- 
ing about  in  the  gang  of  nations  the  disorder  that 
must  arise  when  swag  has  to  be  shared  and 
thieves  fall  out.  To  split  the  League  of  Nations, 
the  complicated  machine  into  whose  works  every 
financier,  every  diplomat,  and,  if  he  had  anything 
to  do  with  it,  every  journalist  would  throw  a  hand- 
ful of  sand  as  he  passed  by.  He  saw  the  Poles 
grinding  the  Jews,  the  Czechoslovaks  preparing  to 
fight  the  Magyar,  the  Bolsheviks  of  Russia  and 
Hungary  spreading  their  doctrine  as  a  stain  of  oil 
into  Rumania  and  beyond.  He  saw  Britain  bub- 
bling with  rage  and  unrest.  On  that  day  the  miners 
of  West  Yorkshire  were  out,  not  only  against  the 
masters  and  the  state,  but  against  their  own  Fed- 
eration; the  bakers,  perhaps,  were  coming  out;  the 
police  were  striking  in  various  parts.  The  air  was 
full  of  strikes  impending,  strikes  in  progress,  strikes 
settled.  Settled?  As  well  settle  those  as  a  wound 
by  a  bit  of  sticking-plaster  that  comes  off.  He  sud- 
denly developed  enough  imagination  to  perceive  an 
incredible  future,  to  understand  that  rising  wages 
meant  rising  prices,  that  profits  and  the  spending 
thereof  on  the  sterile  labor  of  goldsmiths,  on  motor- 
cars, on  footmen,  would  go  on  all  the  same.  He 
realized  the  vicious  circle,  rising  wages,  and  rising 
prices,  and  nobody  any  better  off  .  .  .  only  goaded 
by  envy,  exasperated  by  injustice.  Like  a  bull  at 
bay  and  frothing  at  the  mouth,  Labor  would  turn  on 
society   and   destroy   the   present   order,   suppress 

419 


*8  CALIBAN  % 

wages,  suppress  profits,  reduce  living  to  a  decent 
level  of  barbarism,  where  the  baker  would  barter 
his  loaves  for  a  length  of  cloth  and  once  more  men 
would  bear  arms. 

Revolution!  the  word  tempted  him.  His  personal 
anguish  was  so  sharp  that  he  desired  the  end  of  a 
society  in  which  this  anguish  lived.  Then  he 
thought:  " After  all,  what's  it  got  to  do  with  me? 
Society  and  all  that?  I  am  what  I  am;  I'm  alone, 
like  most  people.  After  my  death  Hettie  and  Ellie 
will  appoint  Alford  to  carry  on.  And  Alford  will 
give  me  a  three-col.  obituary.  One  slips  into  life 
easily  enough,  and  one  slips  out.  One's  not  missed. 
One's  not  missed  because  one  doesn't  hitch  on  to 
other  people." 

He  got  up  and  went  to  the  window.  At  two 
points  of  Ludgate  Circus  he  saw  small  boys  carry- 
ing the  yellow  placard  of  the  Evening  Gazette.  He 
raised  the  sash  higher  and  higher,  and  leaned  out. 
Through  the  rumble  of  London  he  faintly  heard  the 
voice  of  the  nearer  boy: 

"G'zette!    Speshul  GPzettel" 

He  stared  at  him.  To-day's  Gazette!  There  would 
be  to-morrow's  Gazette,  and  so  on  forever.  The  other 
thought  was  still  on  him;  he  said  aloud: 

"One  doesn't  hitch  on  to  anybody.  One  just 
messes  about  a  bit  in  the  middle  of  life,  and  life  sails 
away." 

"G'zette,  came  the  voice  again,  "speshul    G'zette!" 


THE   END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


JM  2  6  f96S  6 

1 

RECD  LD 

JAN  12 '66 -1PM 

SEP  0  8  1980 

BEC-CIR.  SEPl  6  '80 

APR  0 }   iqni 

*  iqqI 

22'91 

t  Tk  oi  a    «rw,  q  »ftK                                    General  Library 
^VsMoJ&B                             UnWer^of  California 

: 


ill 


if 


